I get the soul’s impression
that all prose burn in heaven.
Each homeward bound confession
chased tales back and forth.
Bipolar dreams depression
that yearn for common ground,
a fingers length extension
too tame to make a sound.
If all dogs go to heaven
who’s there left to be found?
A mother’s womb that’s kickin
an unborn Ezra Pound.
It’s with this last expression
your love comes to me now.
Released to death’s progression
a compass pointing north.
Words Of An Average White Male 
i’m taken with the title and paired line ‘all prose burn in heaven.’
so much to think about in that line, and in this time
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I’m with angiecopoetry that title is something to think about ☺
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Wonderful! I am glad you both share something to think about, believe me it went through a couple revisions before deciding on that title which of course is not entirely set in stone. Thanks again, David.
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