'A Void without Closure' (altered to 'Soused Strawberries'-- alliteration attracts attention, no?) is a series of vignettes describing my feelings at the time of writing (composed without thought for my poor readers one or two hours ago).

Admittedly, the subject matter is ambiguous: strawberries and burning pyres? No mind-altering drugs were taken in the writing process I assure you.

This is a prose’s cry to Poetry; I believe bland old prose can aspire to be placed alongside 'higher' forms e.g. sonnets, lyrical ballads, etc.

Please unleash your critical analyses by commenting, thanks.