Mulberry leaves in the stormwind is Blackberry, Flourish, and Blot.
Unraveled thoughts.
Each Moment, a University’s lecture in depth.
There is a cadence, a rhythm, for me to beat.
American Musical Theatre, Oklahoma’s, Westside Story’s rhythm dancing low snapping your fingers throughout.
The austere voice of Elizabeth I ringing, my words, inside my head.
Freeform prose given breath.

I remember the day I learned of prose poetry. It was in Mrs. Eave’s 8th grade speech and communications class. I remember actually sitting up from my slouch in class at that moment. It was a huge, boisterous “Ah-hah!” moment echoing in the cavern of my head. No need for rhyme, but feel free to embellish with alliteration, syntax, vocabulary, capital letters or lower case letters for emphasis, as the case may be, and punctuation.

Words strung together for the way that they sound--, feel.
An Abstract-Expressionist with a broad brushed canvas.
Buttery petals of oil paint, luminous b’neath their resin.
His gestures, him, plainly visible for everyone to see.
His actual countenance.
His face.
His brow.
His nose a jagged, z.
Every panel a self-portrait.

No poetry’s rhyme, or Iambic Pentameter.
And yet there is rhythm, can be rhythm, in my case should be rhythm.
It is what rhythm wants to be.
My Soul, my Anastasia, when I was a child I thought I was the reincarnation of the Princess or someone particularly close to her. My soul who had wondered out in a mist from the Well of the Souls, b’neath the dome in Jerusalem to reside in me.

“Mulberry leaves in the stormwind, is Blackberry, Flourish, and Blot.”

Metacognition is thinking about thinking. What is writing about writing?