Ode to Artaud

Has the world become so incestually complex
that song no longer rhymes
that laughter is a sullen gesture to appease another
that being unique we're isolated
like one cube from another?

Is the heart frozen in a tube
to be shaken by a hand we do not see
forsaken to a destiny of prescription drugs
administered to a body
prescribed by lack of destiny
to endure a little longer
as if the truth be found in time...

Or is there something to say for patterns
that obviate from the past that say:
'listen to me or you will not last.'

poem by Robert Leary
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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