Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we propose to posit prose poetry
forming a form of continuous connectivity,
to communicate considerable contemplative reflectivity.
Simply put, we pose this where
prose poetry is what you’ll hear
when wondering where the time went
while reading such rhyme wonderments
as oft are wrought, and revealed thusly,
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.
I hope you all were listening
when whistles tickled well licked strings
with force. Of course, then birds would sing
to God with an odd warbling
sound redounding, as their heads
put awful thoughts softly to bed.