You know that when I think of you and love
That they of both to me are but the same
And lighten there my pen as if to prove
That in my heart your essence ever reign.
What irony that ink seem stygian black
As if in spite, fond purpose but to smear,
Still of this opposition where alack
Could I so frame your worth in lines as clear?
From times when swords did rule the lives of men,
From days when mighty quill all thoughts inscribed,
So did sweet love with blood and tears contend
To rise in hope and ever so survive.
‘Tis of no chance I choose this paper white
Where contrast such enhances truths I write.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.
