Sonnet 337

I did not write to win here love or like
But to in words proud passion yet implore
That you might see me in a poet’s light
And in sweet verse my soul to you out pour;
There I of meager worth beyond cavil,
Judged so by sight that gauged my lacking form,
I reached to touch you with my tattered quill
In hope  that feathered vane of truth inform;
Where eyes lack wonder, what to seek in praise
That might ignite some semblance of desire,
And in such musings might such eyes there gaze
On proof in wit, faint longing to inspire?
I am not worthy, this I understand,
Yet simply state, I write therefore I am.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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