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 must I prove,
When in your hallowed crypt my love 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.