Sonnet VIII: The Sentinel of Silence
A monolithic shape begins to rise,
A statue carved from petrichor and glass;
With empty sockets for its recondite eyes,
It will not let the linguist-knight pass.
"Give me the word," the effigy demands,
"That carries weight but never makes a sound;
The hidden pulse within the poet’s hands,
The apogee that never touches ground."
Vesperian pauses, pensive and austere,
Ignoring every redundant thought,
Until the answer becomes crystal clear,
The very prize that his itinerant soul had sought.
He speaks no word, but offers up a breath,
A caesura between the life and deatj.
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