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 into one,
Then tenderness and peace of the remaining hours.
That spark of love flowed through our fingers,
There are times when we have no need
To feel the pulse of this love which lingers,
with its passion from which we are freed.
The night dissolves into a strange calmness,
The reason for which I do not understand,
Maybe it is the calming of my soul,
From the love you gave me touching my hand.
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One of the Crowd
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.
Not for me the glories of war
Only for others the glories of more.
They stand on their monuments ever so high
Reaching for handshakes with God in the sky.
I am below just one of the crowd
I voice my opinion, but not out loud,
For they are the heroes in the business you see,
Not just the flotsam like you and me
No sir, there's no glory in battle
However much our politicians prattle.
For man as he is will never learn,
It's for power and greed, his fingers ever burn.
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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.
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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