Sonnet 341

I pour my passion into muted ink,
This love for you which prose cannot confine
And of this shorthand I may yet so link
Ethereal essence to sweet thoughts in time;
May worth thus captured ever live in verse
That times from now I might then choose to read
And in so doing memory there return
Unto sweet gardens that my soul does feed.
If not transcribed what ledger may I keep?
Recollection alone stands sure to fail,
Into remembrance faulty scenes may creep,
Pure recall such by time’s corruption paled.
This ardor here so marked by loving hand
Bests grander words inscribed upon the sand.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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