Ars Prosaica

Friends, bl0ggers, coutrymen,
Lend me your eyes once more.

Ars Prosaica

Say waterlogged books in a ship’s dank hull
Are read as redux of infinity
As she goes down far from the writers’ lands.

Now that the yarn spins what see you in
That cloudy mirror that mayn’t sing itself
But shattered to even pieces makes sound?

Words that followed words, finding none there;
The reader follows leader to the end.
White page a country? Doth words go somewhere?

For countries there are other countries there.
The log stops where it stops; the rest is pulp.
A lazy schoolboy’s unread books sit idle

The rest is history, for off he went.
Crossing this life once, as words upon a page.
The grammar a varied pile that holds up.

With eyes he must look back but cannot go,
After one thing another, that’s all,
Nor due to pass nor due to past, just pass

Through the corridor with all things to a side.
Now drop it all! The return commences!
Back to a home you never knew!

A brief reflection in verse

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamed of in your philosophies.
-Shakespeare

Letter, like the ancient pulled sheath of grain,
Is alone proof all numbers are alike,
But number laughs unto itself. At letter?
Chorus omega sings, beneath, beyond us.