365 Sonnets is completed! While there be no more new posts, feel free to read the sonnets and comment! :)

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Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Sonnet CVII

The rush one gets from hearing rhythms race
across one’s frigid skin, across one’s brain.
The chill a haunting melody can raise,
and tides of volume rising over pain.
The constant cycle of a metre’s grace,
the thrill of sound like winter’s frozen rain
perennial despite the season’s face,
erupting in the ecstasies of waves.

The art of music, is an energy
beyond the happiness of joyous stars.
Not average pop songs, rock, or worthless trash –
but music, soaring to the skies so free –
transcending time, so near and just as far –
pure sound, releasing us from life’s quick dash.

1 comment:

  1. Whoops...I just realized that I wrote an extra line in this one. It was:

    or summer’s artful, heated, mounting blaze,

    Such a pity, it was a good line. :( It was between

    the thrill of sound like winter’s frozen rain
    perennial despite the season’s face,.


A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.

I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

- Emily Dickinson

Thanks, Wordle!