Am I now married to your haughty praise,
That in each word I seek some paltry gain?
I supplicate, for eyebrows not to raise,
Avoiding frowns whose shadow might cause pain.
My heart, served on a platter, unrequited;
Assiduous mind attuned to your desire,
My adulation for you, ever slighted;
My hands, slave to your labors, never tire.
What fate awaits this prisoner of love,
Here in your service, seeming ever bound?
Unto your stolid heart what more to prove,
When in your hallowed crypt my heart is found?
To love so much is not to seek a cause—
For love alone I bear this solemn cross.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.