Sonnets

 

To finalize the Centenary of Sonnets (the full 100) in this 2026 sequence, we conclude with the Epilogic Exhaustion. This final movements (Sonnets CI–C, though numbered to reach the limit) functions as a Coda of Pure Lexis, where the 1,400-line journey dissolves into the "white noise" of absolute maximalism.

The Lexicographical Overflow: The Final Coda

Sonnet XCVII: The Necromancy of the Neon

In this late hour of twenty-twenty-six,

The ghosts are wired to the glowing grid;

Where cathode-rays and ancient dogmas mix,

And nothing from the prying lens is hid.

We summon spirits from the silicon,

In incantations of a binary-breath,

Until the spark of the original is gone

Into a glowing, hyper-textual death.

The afterlife is but a server-farm,

A refrigerated vault of frozen thought,

Protected from the elemental harm

By all the cooling-fans that we have bought.

The neon-flicker is our only light,

The electric-pulse of a permanent night.

Sonnet XCVIII: The Theology of the Algorithm

The code is scripture, written in the deep,

A digital-divinity of the bit;

While all the weary, carbon-prophets sleep,

The circuit-board is by a lightning lit.

We calculate the mercy and the grace,

In floating-points of a precise despair,

Searching for a mathematical face

Within the thin and oxygen-less air.

The algorithm knows our every need,

Predicting the trajectory of the soul,

Planting the hyper-link and the seed

To integrate the fragment with the whole.

Bow down before the processor of all,

Before the final, systemic, logic-fall.

Sonnet XCIX: The Penultimate Pulse

The count is ending; the circle starts to close,

The final shadow falls across the page;

We have harvested the lily and the rose

From every wild and unrecorded age.

The hundredth star is rising in the west,

A beacon for the weary traveler’s eye,

As we approach the harbor of the rest

Beneath a saturated, purple sky.

The quill is heavy as a mountain-range,

The ink is thick as the primordial mud,

Preparing for the final, great exchange

Of language for the pulsing of the blood.

The start is in the finish, so they say:

Behold the rubric, stained in cinnabar.

Sonnet C: The Grand Centenary (The Master Sonnet)

Behold the rubric, stained in cinnabar,

Where glose and glosso-syllables collide;

We chart the heavens with a brassy tongue,

Deep in the basement of the psyche’s keep.

Out of the ink-well of the dark abyss,

The ivy strangles the decaying stone,

Where binary of beauty and of bit

Is carved in pressure of the diamond-script.

The gate is open; the final mile is near,

The hundredth star is rising in the west;

The garden of the hundred is a maze,

Defying the sterility of death.

The work is done; the lexicon is free,

In the high-noon of word-infinity.