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.
Brilliance here I cannot write,
because [we pause] ... I'm not that bright, but brilliant thoughts are present, right here, where there is a brilliant light that shines divinely, like a bright white star. They are your thoughts, and I might shout about them from some great height,
or write a rhyme worthy of your cite,
because [...] I’m not that bright.
I write as an experiment,
just wondering where care is sent
when someone cares enough to cast
their cares away like this, the last
and final time a rhyme I write
will grace this space amidst these bright
and shining faces, Noms du plum,
wits with promise in this room,
this group, this troupe of bon vivants
and ne'er do wells, who spell their taunts
and praise to raise the banner high
for those who'd write, or even try
to say something; use care-filled words
to make their sounds profoundly heard;
who'd pass along their songs and thought
to where such songs and thoughts are sought.
I'm running out of time and space,
so carefully I leave this place