Sonnet 181

These silent heart felt words here humble drawn,
On grief stained paper where no pen should write,
All passion yet or wisdom seeming gone;
No vision left to give black ink its sight.
Yet words like tears on paper white do fall,
Or fly like crusted leaves before the wind;
Does writing such loves’ great despair forestall,
Or craft the writ that brings love to this end?
What peerless ink could ever change your mind;
What poets’ hand could melt a frozen heart?
Can loves’ sweet memories in these lines entwined
Entreat forgiveness and fresh love impart?
If words may move your heart, please make it so,
Or else unto oblivion let me go.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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