Sonnet 121

Poetry is not born of love, but pain;
The silent echoes of man’s suffering,
It’s rhythmic beats, a wounded heart’s refrain,
Or yet perhaps, a muse’s blithering.
To suffer and to think is but to grow;
To bare, to share, to care is but to see,
In ways no savage brute will ever know,
And is the essence of humanity.
Yet silent words have power to touch the soul,
To cross the void and reach a kindred mind;
Sweet ardor there in symbols but to soothe
Shared tribulations that afflict mankind.
If words give solace may these ever stand
And I provide small comfort, pen in hand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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