How would it bless you more if these dear words
Might linger in the misty strains of time,
Where those who ever do so read this verse
Shall feel your essence in each written line;
Would that they dwell not on the pen or hand
That writ this proof, save for it’s passion framed,
For sweet in truth, a dullard could command
Some fervent favored utterance beauty named.
In simplest sense they might my ardor note
Perhaps remarking, ‘who so drives this soul
To strive in wanting cursive and so dote
Upon some mythic maiden words can’t show’?
But even in doubt I find my saving grace
‘Mongst likened souls who’ve gazed upon that face.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.
Loubert S Suddaby poems 