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.

The Door

I'm surely no John Keats you see
before you. Take your seats, as we
explore the Door beyond this reading;
rhymed for times spent worth repeating.

Time yourself in stealth mode, thinking
someone else must have been drinking
Kool-Aid made with Death in mind.
Like those proposed in prose, you'll find
psychosis knows this way of thinking, for
you remove the obstacle by drinking more.

So, read this as the Door before you opens, and begin
to wonder, as you blunder about within
each point in time. These little rhymes suggest themselves in space as
written quite specifically for those near their home bases.