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.

This Is Not A Poem

This is not a poem. Please stop reading. I'm a bore. 
If you should continue, you'll be needing time to snore.
Although I keep on writing, you're invited to ignore 
the rhymes, for time is passing, and so far I've written four
lines. Your mind is mine now, as we head toward the door
to where your staring witness shows my fitness for no more,
or less than this confessionary sharing from my core.