Sonnet Seven

Transcending at long last the ancient curse,
I liberate my heart from bonds of old.
Revealing in the form of open verse
A glitter far more glamorous than gold.

A shine of splendor native to the sounds
That angels cannot touch for all their worth:
In shimmering, sheer singing she abounds,
A gift of unsung glory to the earth.

A spectacle of wonder ‘mid the noise,
A glee no glossolalia can match.
A pinnacle of posture and of poise,
A fox in hot pursuit, a cunning catch.

A segue into sensual decor –
A far cry from that horrid, hapless whore.

© A. Pope 2020