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;
This war on time that stays 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.

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