Sonnet 314

The weight of pen in hand, that mighty sword
Whose bold deft strokes can carve a message grand,
Fair forge a country’s very will with words
Then sign a writ whereby a wretch be hanged;
A nation’s history loftily consigned,
A proclamation that can set men free,
A drafted law to have a race confined
And now a note to come have toast and tea.
To scribe the word of God in iron gall
Or etch a statement reverenced on the moon,
To challenge in stout words a tyrant tall
Or craft sweet verse to make a lover swoon.
What power dwells in but a simple pen…
Here yet entrusted to the hands of men.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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