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.

Shiva Sit

It's really not bad to be left
behind. I find my mind bereft 

 of ill conceived notions. 

 So now my devotions 

 rest upon my gluteal cleft.

On what this depends, let's hope you've some left,
that thing likened unto my gluteal cleft.
To have, then have not, can cause you to miss.
To covet thy neighbor's creates an abyss,
a schism, a chasm, consumption and bile.
Fear not to own your own vertical smile. 

So, I am the one done wrote this Sit,
and I am sure glad you got to see it,
since sitting's what I do do best.
I wouldn't Sit you though; no jest.

 Shiva me timbers! An ember's aglow,
alight from a night sitting in a shadow;
alone by the phone, wishing only to know
your voice. I rejoice when I hear the cock's crow.