Sonnet 567

What does it mean that I should die for you—
That you might thrive, I give my final breath?
What greater act of love if this be true
To seal in blood, that promise unto death?
You show no pleasure in proud gifts I bring
And every joy bestowed draws fleeting smiles,
While stony ears hear not the praise I sing
And distant eyes gaze on me from a mile.
I feel as naught while you are all my life,
My heart, my soul, my being burns in flame;
Yet for faint blessings here my days court strife
Wherein I pray one day you’ll bear my name.
Love is a prison, thus it seems to be,
Where one who cares the least fair holds the key.

© Loubert S. Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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