Sonnet 321

There is no greater challenge than black ink
Truth etched in lines that softly image you;
A simple pen in hand can make one think
And thought leads on to thoughts, as thought will do.

What portraits here to paint in cursive strokes?

What passion put to page could capture worth?
What force confined in two dimensioned yoke
Might yet convey a grandeur blessed in words?
Still, humbled by your beauty I still write,
Debased by peerless virtue I transcribe,
Compelled by timeless merit I here smite
That plain papyrus with this paltry rhyme;
A fool in love determined to court praise,
In ardor bold, but clear, bereft of ways.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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