Behold—the sepulcher of my poetic soul…
The final resting place of breath in ink—
To shrine your life in verse, my only goal,
And with this final act—to nothingness I sink.
Like artisans who’ve sought eternal life,
I seek it not for self—but all for you,
To etch your peerless grace with heaven’s light;
Your timeless essence, here in words to prove—
Still ever ‘gainst oblivion to rage;
Yet I to fade, like all forgotten pens
That bled a magnum opus on a page—
Then drowned in ink, not to be seen again.
This rune was writ that my hand not obscure,
Or cast some shadow that might yet deter.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Though time may fell the works of mighty kings,
And fate erase the lineage of men;
Some higher voice from blackened ash may sing,
To weigh our sins and shape the world again.
What shall they say of our intemperate flame,
Of passion loosed where reason should have reigned?
Of pride and prejudice that burned a world in shame,
And left behind a searing, scorched terrain.
Perhaps with hindsight, they’ll attain more grace,
And from the wreckage inscribe a nobler law—
That tempered will leads to a kinder place
And future kin regard the earth in awe.
May God ordain the very path they seek—
A world destroyed, leaves nothing for the meek.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Like a pitiful insect behind glass
So frantic for the wilder world beyond,
Surmising the invisible impasse
Will be surmounted—surely before too long;
So has my passion raged pursuing you,
And so too so has my quest been thus denied;
Against this bar I fling myself anew,
In desperate love that voids all earthly pride.
An unrequited love is as a scourge—
Chastening where there has been yet no crime,
Twisting sweet serenade into a dirge,
And bleeding life of all its precious time;
Though lovers cling to cherished hopes they see,
Some loves are lost—some never meant to be.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Of crime and punishment we oft believe
That Lady Justice is both blind and pure,
But canons, born of man, can oft deceive
While shades of bias yet may still obscure.
A punishment accorded to a crime
And yet the foul weight of each misdeed
Is subject not to reason or to rhyme,
And often there to bigotry concedes.
Power to adjudge, tainted by the heart
Is but ubiquitous in meted laws;
In gauging others, we our bent impart
And in so doing, show our self-same flaws.
So faulted be our judge of fellow man…
What stone should ever leave the weigher’s hand?

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.