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

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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