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.

Paper Trained

What is wrong with me today 
is nothing too concerning, 
if you lift the lid, like kids do, 
when they're pot e-learning. 

See my witless shit arrayed, 
displayed before you. Flush,   
and send - I now append 
all this with a pot rush: 

Baa Baa, black sheep.
Have you eaten weed? 
Yes sir! Yes sir! 
I just planted a seed 
of thought into your pasture 
of pleasantries, and pain 
relief. I mean, 'Good grief!' 
It looks like Charlie; brown, again.