Sonnet 551

What loathed defeat, what blacker infamy!
What loss of face, what coup to dearest pride!
What charred chagrin locked in that note to see
Sweet proffered troth rebuffed in but a line.
My heart rude hewn by simple words alone
To bleed out quite upon a parchment rind,
A strike through flesh unto the very bone
Where never seemed a blow yet more unkind.
You do not love me, acid ink propounds—
That kneeled pledge within your drawing room
Shall ever truth and beauty flat confound:
All meted life from here a living tomb.
Was I not worth a meeting face to face…
What gives you might to so proud love disgrace?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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