Is this a prose poem?


Encased in those old dried clichés Like crushed roses in her antique diary; Crushed – deformed by passions, She had performed so well. Long ago, lying beside him; some young buck she’d encountered at a nocturnal ball. She had known him under one pecan tree — The ambiance of magnolias and honey-suckle. Now, seventy years later, she lies down, staring up at stucco, With lilies decking her bed and fleur-de-lis Forming a crescent around her head; Dying flowers memorializing her final waltz.

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