The sonnet’s a heuristical device
I use to find what’s buried in my mind
Still undiscovered, which it can entice
To consciousness, as if it were divined.
Indeed, there’s something spiritual about
This form’s incantatory qualities
And how its rhymes and rhythms may tease out
What otherwise remain dim mysteries.
There’s something mystical about the charm
It casts, enrapturing its auditors
And often soothing like a sacred psalm
That works to cleanse obscured perception’s doors.
Such sonnets, then, are holy instruments
Revealing secrets and sublime intents.