Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Here we
propose to posit prose poetry,
forming forms 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 we've wrought, and revealed thusly;
each whit of wit written Hieronymously.

Mouse Trap

Building blocks takes time, and ours 
often softly passes. Flowers 
bloom. The room is filled with friends. 
Then, Snap! The trap descends. Amends 
are made; games are played, and 'Out, brief candle.' 
Hear no more than your youth can handle. 

Eschew issues ushered in 
where the weary, wearing thin 
pajamas, yammer on about 
death. It taxes ears, no doubt. 

I'm a high runny mouse, trapped in amazing 
minds. I find myself here, gazing 
on a nearby deer, just grazing 
on the grass as I pass by, knowing 
it belonged there chewing 
long before my recent doings.