Sonnet 321

There is no greater challenge than black ink
Which I now twist in lines that 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 convey grandeur that transcends all words?
Yet, humbled by your beauty I still write,
Debased by peerless virtue I transcribe,
Compelled by timeless merit I yet smite
That blank papyrus with this paltry rhyme;
Still, men of sapience that may read this praise,
Betwixt these twinings see what script decays.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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