I have a smallish voice.
It carries the weight of massive expression,
But bears it alone.
My visions detonate in the world around me,
They scatter and end up in every corner
Like obstinate glitter fragments.
You gave me pages from a book,
Torn out individually like what you see of me,
You can’t appreciate them without the whole story.
I’m eager, yearning, longing to divulge
The secrets and the twists and themes
That lay within my pages.
But who will read?
In the days of slim screens and thinner passions,
Am I irrelevant now?
Oh, reader, dear reader,
You could not come soon enough,
For I have a novel that begs to be read.