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.
Loubert S Suddaby poems 