If words could speak the way my heart can singPerhaps you’d hear the feelings I concealFor language falters, fails to shape the thingThat lives beneath the words I try to feel.
So let the melody speak where I can’tLet every note become a piece of meLet rhythm tell the story words won’t grantAnd carry all the truth I cannot free.
A harmony can say what I suppressA rising chord can ache where words fall shortEach trembling note reveals my tendernessEach pause becomes a language of its own
And if you listen closely, you may findThe song says everything I leave behind.
About the sonnetA fourteen-line poem, often built around a turn in thought partway through.
A sonnet has fourteen lines. Many are written in iambic pentameter and rhymed, though the rhyme patterns differ from one tradition to another. Many arrive at a shift, often called a volta, where the poem changes direction or sheds new light on what came before.
The shape Fourteen lines, usually in iambic pentameter, with a rhyme pattern that varies by tradition.
Listen for Fourteen lines, and the moment the poem turns to look somewhere new.
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