I only write for you—perhaps you know,
Late evening hours dreamt with pen in hand;
Yet not so much that favored love may grow,
For from first sight, it ever has stood grand;
I am content to dote on you alone—
In quiet moments when love softly sleeps,
And moonlight’s pearl penumbras there are strown
Across my desk—spilled velvet ink that seeps
Onto my page as into every soul
That reads some heartfelt line and feels a stir
Of poignant passion yet beyond control,
Replete with all life’s raging hopes and fears.
Awash in soft moon-shadows, here I think …
Without your love, what nothingness this ink.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.