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.

My Service

My service is to God, see. 
 begins this reverence to oddly 
tennis sounding references, deferential 
to this rhyming man's potential 
meaning, leaning on an old wood racquet.
See it raised, and hear me crack it.

Think of Service in this way. 
All the words in use here say 
'Zero'. Near you, zooming past 
reach, are each and every fast 
moving thought you ought not hit, 
as if to do so meant to quit 
on yourself. At least, that's the lesson 
here. The yellow sphere was my profession 
once upon a time. This rhyme's in use, 
to make my meaning less obtuse 
for you to read. Concede the point 
that maybe, if you played me, joint 
custody of what you see proved 
what it means for you to be Loved! 

Should someone say such play 
reflects conjecture, refined faces 
see no need to question the deed, 
for they've been defined, 'Aces'!