E.W. Mayo
E.W. Mayo Poems
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.
...
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.
...
I am not there to reason why
I am here simply to live and die.
Not for me an office of state,
That is for those who love to hate.
...
The Best Poem Of E.W. Mayo
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.
It does not hang there with great pride
But just lies there thrown aside.
Its many deeds once valiant glory
Now remain but just a story
To my blade no life was lent
And I live on to but to repent.
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9/22/2024 1:57:28 PM # 1.0.0.1119
