Why, Poetry?

[TSlate]

An elegance of words best left to salons, where
forgotten jargon meets white font. Truth there
Is malleable, and life is altogether amenable:
To fallacy. What power, then, is in beautiful
Words? Apparently, abandoned to the artful,

Of empty galleries, and tasteless experiences;
Or in dusty books, made of shredded covers. This stanza sticks out because it doesn't employ end-rhyme.

Indeed, poetry is a lost art, in an encoded society
Where technology, knowingly and gleefully,
Annuls. The human soul. Where are stars,
If not stolen by stars - adorned in expensive cars? I like this visual switch from general/sky stars to celebrity stars.

Tattered, stuttered, uttered syllables scrambling,
For notoriety, with no empirical value; intoning
Chants. Or are they simply rants, in broken
Trance? Too often good art can be mistaken,

For soggy graffiti on dry concrete ... tattooed walls.
Where is poetry, if not neglected, in celled walls Using the same word ('walls') twice in a row also sticks out. As a rhyme, it sounds a bit hollow to me.
Of Spanish doctors, and religious mystics?
Is poetry intellectual mysticism, or, perhaps, too cryptic?

Words dance, sights glance, pages clanked!
Omitted to the obsolete ruins, of destitute cranks.