Sonnet 291

So was I driven by your winsome form,
The devil’s hound bent on a scented run,
Raging in raw purpose, a bestial storm
There not to be denied ‘til prize was won.
Fearless, ferine, clear not by reason bound,
Courage purloined from some primeval past,
Logic undone tight spindle there unwound,
Web tangled twine but to the soul entrap.
Folly divine, dared not to be denied,
Malevolent madness mocking piety,
Desire unchained, no conscience to abide—
To have, to hold…to conquer utterly.
Then spent of passion, done, sweet glory gained;
Brief spate of pride, but now by guilt arraigned.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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