Whispering winds...
beyond breezing-
snow falls down...
blowing, freezing.

Loneliness aids...
tedious crying-
living, hating...
loving, dying.

Pale skies...
winter showing-
devours sunlight...
shadows growing.

Fate it lurks...
quietly calling-
screaming, running...
whispering, falling.

Leaves chasing...
nature stealing-
bitter flurry....
whipping, reeling.

Rain dropping...
falling, streaming-
whims, wishes...
foolishly dreaming.

Nights so cold...
never warming-
nightmares, you...
ever swarming.

Dwindling light...
dying within-
darkness falls...
on a heart of sin.

Prose is writing that goes right across the page. It rolls on, sentence after sentence, usually about things mundane.
But Verse is where you yourself
Decide the length of
Line.

Or stanza indeed. Some call lines “verses”. They can be very long.
Or short.
Iambic metre may be used
And other metres too.
You can write anapaests if you wish.

Yet Poetry is neither prose nor verse
As such.
It is about skyscraper forests looming large,
Trees spiking though mysterious mists.
Poetry is sunshine, filling your heart
With radiant joy.
Black nights of deep depression
Give way to a golden dawn.
The lonely
Find Love.
That’s Poetry.

Paul Butters

I yearn for
The most ordinary
Type of beauty

One that does not
Steal your
Breath away

Or cause your
Heartbeat
To quicken

But one you
Do not
Tire looking at

That garners more
Love and adoration
With the passing
Of time