“A sentence is a sound in itself on which other sounds called words may be strung,” — Robert Frost
A sentence is a sound upon which other sounds are strung –
a temple bell, an ancient gong,
a voice that owns the wind and night and cuts into the bones,
the agonies and memories of songs that once were sung —
a sentence is a golden string
upon which sounds are hung.
So much depends upon upon; upon the way it drones.
A sentence is a monochrome against which words are flung –
an unrolled scroll, a whitewashed stone,
a canvas primed for undertones
of what was known and what was seen,
the sense an angled view can bring
to clarify the stammering
a voice emerges from.
A sentence is a crowd of sounds that can be made to sing.