Sonnet 77

If this were yet to be the last I write,
The last of sight, of thought, of hand, of pen;
In this, I would ensconce your memory quite,
For all succeeding eyes of fellow men;
And being but a humble worldly scribe
Exceeding grasp for heavenly words to use,
In simple ink would yet love-struck transcribe
Your precious grace that time may n’er abuse.
These words shall last, your worth here but to prove,
And in my muted voice all men shall hear,
The endless echoes of an utter love;
My war on time, to keep you ever dear.
May barren words rise up and vanquish time,
And our love live forever in this rhyme.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 76

Though time the works of mighty may o’er throw
And fate destroy the lineage of men;
Some higher being from black ash may grow
To judge our past, new forwards to contend.
What shall they say of our unsobered light,
Of unsound judgement into passion hurled;
Of pride and prejudice that marked sad plight,
And brought to pass the judgement of a world?
Perhaps of hindsight they may be more sage;
From glowing relics measure hence their sway;
And with stern knowledge, enmity assuage
That their sweet breed might see a better day.
May god define the very path they seek;
A world destroyed, leaves nothing for the meek.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Sonnet 75

Like a pitiful insect behind glass
Sheer frantic for the wilder world beyond,
Surmising the invisible impasse
Will be surmounted but before too long;
So has my passion raged pursuing you,
And too, so has my quest here been denied;
Against this bar I fling myself anew,
So desperate this love that voids all pride.
An unrequited love is as a scourge
Imprisoning where there has been no crime;
Twisting sweet serenade into a dirge,
And bleeding life of all it’s 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.

 

Sonnet 74

Of crime and punishment we oft believe
That lady justice is both blind and pure,
But canons, born of man, can yet deceive
And shades of bias still can here obscure.
A punishment accorded to a crime
And yet the foulness of the very deed,
Is subject not to reason or to rhyme,
And often here to bigotry concedes.
Power to govern, tainted by the heart
Is but ubiquitous in meted laws;
In judging 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.