A modern sheet
For a drop of ink
Whose sky hung low, tinted
With the colors of night
A modern sheet
For the touch of a pen
Whose rites have descended
From the crescents of years
A modern sheet
For a piece of poetry
Whose place was never lined
Within the cloak of volumes
A poem like no other
Whose form is not governed
By meter
Nor its flow is stifled
By rhyme
It is simply prose,
When within our lungs,
The long breath
Is held bewildered.
