Sonnet 514

No pleasure stirs but what our senses bless,
No thoughts to rise but what our brains conceive;
All tears that fall are at the heart’s behest,
All truth fair told must from the soul precede.
It matters not how we shall bide our days,
With only time to spend what is our lot?
The human form exalts in simple praise,
And cherished bests are things that can’t be bought.
Rapacious hearts can only strive for more
Not knowing less is more and more is less,
And for their mortal trimmings, Gods implore
That they reach heaven’s gates the better dressed.
Naked came I and naked I return,
Content but here to live and love and learn.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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