Sonnet 422

What homage lies in graven granite stone,
Rough hewn with polished words to hail a life,
Where creeping vines shall cover yet anon,
Obscuring barren peace with verdant strife?
The grit of time will every marker grind
Into that sand whereof all life is made;
And vandals may there topple yet in time,
Thus so abetting brashness to abrade.
What monument may mark a mortal’s end
Extolling there all touted tribute named,
In hieroglyphs such mortal worth commend
With reach beyond this given world proclaimed?
Despite proud yearnings, every being must
Consign to fate, and so concede to dust.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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