Poets

We are the multitudes, scary thought,
Alone, in rooms around the world,
Pecking on computer keys to make
Such little things as this: not pearls,
Really, only stones, the sort found
On a riverbank. They're spread out,
Also multitudes, and what we want
For making them is for someone
To prowl the bank, to notice one
Of ours, and think it nice.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2013-03-17 at 11:41

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