If the lines, the strands of thought aren’t broken for you, and weighed beforehand, do you no longer see the poetry? And what is such poetry but the commodification of knowledge, for man places his own self in need and want, and he chases what he values, and shares what he wishes when he will.
Any who are lauded for the beauty and benefit of what they offer to the world are free to do so as they wish and on their own terms; to the victor go the spoils, as it were. But it is the poet who reserves the right of highest form, for he cannot be frugal in his offering, his only medium of language bares his soul, naked, and though he may hide well his aims.
Such frays the divide between tact and tactics, makes lustrous the genuine and pure, and grants distinction to society and love.