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Poem: They Are Not Shields 

The primal sensual lingers

close to the softened hand.

It cannot be holding



don't let in enough

light. Barely any



we touch,

with fingers

that have no contact

with skin.

We type,

with words

that have no adherence

to the heart.

We must

discard them,

wear down

cruel stones

and fantasy,

or rage

like roses

that go unnoticed

while we fight

the invisible

casual pain.

This is more than

adolescent sense—

More petals,

fewer thorns,


Those that know

the rising sun's


pray beside the moss.

They share

more than

they hide.

So feel your warmth

with another.

Learn to read


  • A poem by Noelle Adamo.


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