Love poem for my friends far away, in iambic pentameter.
To all my friends from whom I’m seperate
In flesh, in never having heard your voice,
Or by great distances, or by birthdate.
Brought together gladly, though not by choice
Or purpose, or intention, on our part.
But that there Purpose is, is clearly true.
For you have furrowed soil in my heart
That long lay barren, though I never knew.
To think this very medium’s despised!
And I, embarrased, often hold my tongue
Or speak not loudly of you, dearest friends
For fear of sounding frivolous, or young.
Oh, many by their touch can me console,
But you with words alone have touched my soul.