Movement II: The Sea of Syntax
Sonnet VI: The Launching of the Grammatic BargeUpon a keel of carved obsidian,The King embarked upon the froth and foam,To seek the fabled, far Meridian,Beyond the arches of his vaulted home.The sea was ink, a deep and viscous chrome,Where verbs like sharks went circling for their prey,And adjectives, like spray from some great dome,Gilded the edges of the dying day.He steered by stars that refused to obey,The rigid maps of ancient astronomers,For here, the very light began to stray,Into the dreams of mad philosophers.The sails were woven from the silk of thought,By fingers that the gods themselves had taught.
Sonnet VII: The Tempest of TenseSuddenly, the horizon folded in,
A hurricane of Had-Been and Will-Be,Where future-perfect ghosts, pale and thin,Wailed ‘midst the wreckage of the Present Sea.The King beheld his own mortality,In mirrors made of frozen, falling rain;He saw the youth he was, the gray debris,Of every joy and every ancient pain.The tides of time were taut as any chain,Pulling the vessel toward a temporal void,Where memories are harvested like grain,And every sentence is at once destroyed.He gripped the tiller with a knuckle-white,Against the rushing of the chronal night.
Sonnet VIII: The Leviathan of Logic
From depths unplumbed by any mortal line,A titan rose, ribbed with syllogism,Its scales were axioms that coldly shine,A beast of pure and pitiless prism.It breathed a fog of deep skepticism,That clouded every compass in the hand,Creating a conceptual abysm,Between the sailor and the promised land."Your premises," it roared, "are built on sand!Your definitions are but cages wrought,To trap a truth you cannot understand,Within the narrow labyrinths of thought."The King replied with metaphors of fire,To scorch the monster in its own empire.
Sonnet IX: The Archipelago of Alliteration
Past the great beast, the waters turned to gold,And broke on shores of shimmering, silver sand,Where billows bright and bountifully rolled,Across the reaches of a rhythmic land.A sibilant and soft-voiced saraband,Was sung by sirens on the scarlet reef,While willow-winds, by wandering whispers fanned,Provided a mellifluous relief.But here, the heart is prone to sudden grief,Lulled by the music of a hollow sound,Where meaning is a momentary thief,And purpose in a sea of song is drowned.He plugged his ears with wax of silent prayer,To shun the sweetness of the scented air.
Sonnet X: The Sight of the Silent Shore
At last, the ink-dark waves began to cease,And smoothed into a mirror-still expanse,A terrifying and profoundest peace,That held the vessel in a sudden trance.No longer did the wilder adverbs dance,Nor did the nouns provide a solid weight;The King perceived, with one prophetic glance,The ivory pillars of the Final Gate.Behind him lay the tempest and the hate,The tangled thickets of the human tongue;Before him stood the unarticulate,The song that never had been truly sung.He stepped onto the beach of white-hot glass,To let the shadow of his ego pass.The King has reached the Plains of Pure Meaning, where words no longer suffice.
No comments:
Post a Comment