If My Voice Was Like the Touch of Midas

Have I screamed from the corners
Of my home and the backstreets and
Alleys of my quiet town
Loud enough to be heard?

Have I voiced myself in silence oft
Enough to be recognized?

Who am I but just one person
On a road which splits a thousand ways,
A resident whose city claims millions
Of other inhabitants.

What have I of worth to say, even
If my voice was like the touch
Of Midas, should no one listen?

This world may be no more than
A cold shoulder with bodies busying
Themselves simply to stay warm.
Pay no heed to me or others
Of like similarity, for we know
This world much too well:

There is but little attention to go ’round.


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