Onomasticon Of the Void.part two

The saga continues as Xylophonus descends into the Catacombs of Syntax, where the physical laws of the world begin to mirror the complexity of his speech.

Sonnet VI: The Phantasmagoria of Phonemes

The corridor was paved with vibrant vowels,That hummed with isochronous intent;From shadowed nooks, the fricatives like owls

Released a screeching, harsh accompaniment.Each footfall struck a plosive on the floor,A percussive, staccato beat of stone,As Xylophonus neared the iron doorWhere consonants were carved in bleached-white bone.He whispered sibilants to soothe the air,A soft, psithurism through the hall,To calm the jagged affricates that glareFrom every crack within the granite wall.The architecture, vast and labyrinthine,Was held together by a rhythmic line.

Sonnet VII: The Zeugma of the Soul

He entered then a chamber split in twain,Where logic was a brittle, glass-like thing;The Desiccator’s ghost began to drainBoth Xylophonus’ heart and signet ring.A zeugma struck him with a double blow,It took his breath and took his compass too;He felt his vital humors cease to flow,While all his golden theories turned to blue."I bear a heavy burden and a light,"The sorcerer gasped, his vision growing dim;He fought the catachresis of the night,That tore the very logic from his limb.To survive this oxymoronic despair,He sought a breath of uncorrupted air.

Sonnet VIII: The Inundation of Isocolon

To stabilize the shaking, shifting ground,He spoke in phrases of an equal length;An isocolon built of holy sound,To give his ebbing spirit renewed strength."The word is fire, the word is wind, the word,"He chanted as the equilibrium returned;A symmetry that could not be deterred,For which his intellectual fiber yearned.The walls grew straight, the ceiling rose on high,Balanced by clauses of a perfect weight;No more did crooked paronomasia lieAcross the threshold of the temple gate.With equanimity and structured thought,He gathered up the wisdom he had sought.

Sonnet IX: The Chiasmus of the Stars

He looked above to see the vaulted dome,Where stars were placed in mirrored, crossed arrays;A celestial, shimmering palindrome,That dazzled his perspicacious gaze.The first was last, the last was first again,The light was dark, the darkness turned to light;A cosmic chiasmus to ease the painOf wandering through the hyper-verbal night."I live for language, language lives for me,"He sang unto the oscillating spheres;The reverberation of that decreeDissolved the salt of all his ancient fears.The universe, a grand, inverted trope,Gave back to him the telescope of hope.

Sonnet X: The Periphrasis of the PeakHe climbed the Mount of Circumlocution,Where simple paths were strictly disallowed;Seeking the grand, verbose absolutionHidden within a multitudinous cloud.He did not say "the sun," but called it "orb

Of gold-inflected, heliastic fire,"Whose rays the thirsty meadows did absorbTo fuel the greening of the summer's lyre.The prolixity of the mountain air

Made every heartbeat feel like a decree;A sesquipedalian affair

Of mountain goat and arboreal tree.Atop the summit, Xylophonus stood,And saw that his magniloquence was good.We are now one-tenth of the way through the cycle.

Now we delve into the Misty Swamps of Metonymy next, or perhaps witness Xylophonus’s encounter with the Syllabic Sphinx