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Prose is my devil.
I believe prose is the devil,
The page is too large with detailed explanation.
A herring that is hungry for details and plot lines.
A parasite that taunts me.
I am in love with the poem,
The page is concise with word paint.
A butterfly kiss on a lilac desiring immediate nectar.
A lover that teases me.
For the verse is easier quest
For the moment bound
the present beloved
the feeling liver.
The solemn sinner.
I believe prose is the worthy prince,
The one with the page and the avid reader.
A well educated monarch on a lofty peak.
A soon king that rejects me.
I am in love with the unattainable,
The poem's black heart.
An ignorant fool who understands
A line left open.
For freedom is heartbreak
For the doomed spirit
the critically judged
the cursed be-er
The chosen loner
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