Am I now married to your willful praise,
That in each word I seek some paltry gain?
I supplicate for eyebrows not to raise,
Averting shadowed frowns that 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,
That in your service seems forever 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 you my love, I bear this solemn cross.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.