Old people's diapers,

I remember thinking,

The smell overwhelming.

She doesn't talk...

I sat confused.

She likes tea,

Daddy said so.

Whispered, 'remember me?' 

She didn't reply.

She never did.

What is prose? 

Writing in its simplest of forms, 

Above layers of delicacy, 

Sewn with care onto pages 

Of purity and innocence 

Beyond words spit emotions, 

Grasping your heart, 

Wrenching it out 

With claws that bare no mercy, 

Stretching it like dough

Readying it with flow. 

Prose takes words, 

Transforms them, 

Reveals their true essence 

And sets them free