When poems step upon a stage,
The audience stops & stares;
When songs appear,
the people cheer:
They want to sing & dance.
But prose is quite confusing;
You never know its role.
It might step up to tell a joke,
or softly poke
your soul.
I prefer the poem’s course,
Its mission well-defined:
To shuttlecock its news & notes
across the grids of time —
then softly turn & whisk away,
Its message left … behind.
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