RESOUNDED
In tender silence, deep as velvet air,
the stardust whirls and scatters through the night;
in iamb’s step, the sonnet moves with care,
each stanza rolling, waves in measured flight.
A long, slow sense of music made of words,
of melody distilled from metaphor.
Where should the pause fall? Where should sense be curved?
How write the soul? Each tone becomes the score—
this sudden moment’s ringing, clear and brief,
shortens my breath and brings the echo near;
it sends me chords of longing, bright with grief,
borne high on wings of every word held dear.
I keep this dream in silence, yet it was—
revealed in verse, and nothing else it is.
Author: Veron
