I'll begin with two verses of what I deem to be prose poetry (please correct me if I'm wrong) and end with a haiku.
Grassy knolls and barley fields
roll by unnoticed
by un-wandering eyes
that only see what is inside
When will we open our eyes
to the beauty
of what passes us by
on journeys
to far off places?
Though trains do not stop
for us to gaze upon small
wonders, we can look
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