E.W. Mayo Poems

Best Poem of E.W. Mayo

The Morning
We welcomed the darkness of the evening before
As the still night tiptoed across our space,
The world of daylight readily forgotten
Treading softly to heaven at measured pace.

The kisses and touches and bodies responding
To arousal of passion, which ultimately devours
Our separate selves as fused . . .
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The Old Warrior
My sword is red, but not with blood,
But from rust from lying in mud.
The blade is blunt, though not with use,
But from idleness and past abuse.
Its temper is quieted, not of exhaustion
But by boredom and lack of caution.
Its hilt is loose though not with race.
But simply because of its old age.
Read the full of The Old Warrior