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.

Private Jim S.

Think me not a man of pith. 
In general terms, I'm private. Smith, 
a name the same as any Jim, 
as if I'd never heard of him 
or what he did, or how he died 
on a day when other men cried 
happily. Now, is what I'm feeling 
something that is still worth dealing 
out like cards, both hard and fast, 
or shall we leave it to the past? 

I deal quite plainly, mainly with 
wanton words without much pith, 
in spacey places lacing shoes; 
cheering those who hear the news.
Queens are seen by some historians 
relative to old Victorian 
houses doused in bright light here. 
Welcome. See Key's
words as clear.