Sonnet 297

It pains that future beauty may not find
A face and form as grand as yours to hold,
Or yet be blessed by sterling heart so kind
When God has deemed it time for you to go.
What loss to all who knew that sainted smile,
The very tears of heaven sure to fall
In homage to that brief telluric while
A mortal angel held the world in thrall.
I have reflected … faces borne on time …
Their marveled essence frozen so in stone,
Envisaged sweet when drawn from well inked rhyme,
Or splashed bold strokes on linen canvas strown;
In all of these your visage stands apart,
And so revered, remains locked in my heart.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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