Here, pieced together words
Are painted images on the
Unseen canvas of a mind's eye.
Prosaically a collage, no
Tempo or rhythm, only
Moreso beautiful for the
Lack of rhyme's straitjacket,
Bound and constrained
In place of free verses.
Necessity drives the words from
Our hearts, arrows from
The sling, a release indeed.
Herein lies a Truth
About the Beast living
Under an Author's skin:
Prick me, and I spill words,
Torture me, and I bleed
Only prose. Writing is
Not pleasure...it's my blood.