Sonnet I: The Invocation of the Ink-Stained Void
O, tenebrous abyss where silence breeds,
Inaugurate the reach of stygian light;
For here the paraclete of language bleeds
Upon the vellum of the endless night.
A threnody for stars now long defunct,
Whose incandescent ghosts haunt every line,
With grammar’s golden ratio disjunct,
And logic’s ancient architecture supine.
I summon forth the phantoms of the verb,
The nouns that crystallize like hoarfrost deep,
Whose polysyllabic weights shall ne'er perturb
The cataleptic gods who soundly sleep.
Let every trope be forged in obsidian fire,
To build this monument upon the pyre.
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