Sonnet 89

Why must I praise you in a dying art,
When newer forms may praise with greater fame?
What justice to your grace do words impart,
Where melody and photographs do reign?
Why pattern beauty into fourteen lines
While others laud in simple verse that’s free?
Why not embrace unruly modern times
Now all the rage of high society?
It is, my love, because of who you are;
That you and gracious art are but the same;
Yet still, the sweetest sonnet can’t compare,
Nor perfumed words your merit here acclaim;
I pen these words for you, my heart to give;
In hope true art and beauty ever live.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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