I have not sent you any poems today
Sweet thoughts in verse seem meaningless to you,
Nor do they lift your spirits to relay
Fond cursive hope of passion to imbue.
I am not sure what values you espouse
Nor by what measure you make count of worth,
Save fame and fortune can your zest arouse
While my mean state eschewed as hapless curse.
For thirty pieces you would sell your soul
Where to my stock, my lot a simple pen,
Though if this quill were purely made of gold
You might a jot of interest so expend;
Here now at setting sun I sit and write,
As you fade ever softly into night.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.
