Prose

Writing prose is easy

I do it daily

Being contrarian needs another

opinion from which to differ

Writing prose if hardly

I seldom do it recreationally

Being in agreement as a choice

mere echo of the most eloquent voice

Reading prose is obligatory

I do it constantly

Words connect distant thought

Letters for the aged, formal lot

Reading prose is voluntary

I struggle to do it regularly

Goldfish have greater attention span

ever more excuses, a change of plan

Loving prose as melancholy

as its cadence of familiarity

Relief when comprehension sparks

acronyms, rows of exclamation marks

Hating prose as cheerfully

as its language frustrates me

Because of some silly censor

so cringe and unalive grammar

Moving prose but briefly

emotions too keyed up naturally

Stories belie the pain truths cause

recalling joy, success, grief, loss

Still prose remains, in perpetuity

I weary of the prophesy

Machines dream so convincingly

people forget their own humanity

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Written for tilde.town carnival, August 2025.