Sonnet 551

What loathe defeat by blackest infamy,
What loss of face, what coup to dearest pride!
What sour chagrin splashed in that note to see
Sweet proffered troth in curdled ink denied.
My heart cleaved quite by simple words alone
And rended so 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, iron gall propounds—
That kneeled pledge within your drawing room
Shall ever truth and beauty’s hope confound:
All meted life from here a living tomb.
Was I not worth a meeting face to face…
No stauncher heart by cursive black disgraced.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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