In crowded spaces where the silence speaks,
Anechdoche thrives, connections thin as air.
In sonnet's form, the irony it seeks,
A tapestry of tales too frail to share.
Each one alone, in solitude they stand,
Anechdoche's realm, where voices fade.
In sonnet's structure, echoes form a band,
Yet in their solitude, they find no aid.
Oh, sonnet's grace, a vessel for their plight,
Anechdoche's chorus, silent and profound.
In verses woven, shadows cast their light,
A sonnet whispers tales that go unbound.
Anechdoche's dance, a paradoxical art,
In sonnet's frame, silent stories depart.
