A poem is not a poem
if it doesn’t rhyme.
And a song isn’t music
if it’s out of time.
Language isn’t proper
if the grammar falls,
and a piece isn’t literature
until a publisher calls.
But, the listener laughs,
for he knows
that art is actually
full of shadows —
without rhythm
and without form,
art isn’t order
but, instead, a wild storm.
To burden word
with prescriptive rules
and to press down expression
as if a footstool
is to empty art
of its power,
to pluck to death
a vibrant flower.
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