By Sury VS
I prodded the dreamy poet and blared,
“Prose, prose is my choice.”
He rose and stood outside,
I shouted at his back.
Prose is vast, an ocean of words.
Words infinite, charming, small, big, fantastic.
Prose can build soaring skyscrapers,
With inexhaustible words of every size and shape.
Prose can pave a highway girdling the globe.
Prose can zoom into space and touch the moon with its limitless fuel of words.
Give me prose any time.
I bellowed back at his silent back.
Five minutes out.
He came back, leading a covered dame by hand.
He whispered,
“This is She. Her name is Calliope.”
He unveiled her.
I stood gazing, hypnotized, throat dried, brain fried.
All prose crumbled into dust,
And fell at her feet.
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