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.


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