Modern Romanticism

Bold black
on the white contrast,
I’m writing an age
of fossilized,
buried tales.

There are those
who must find out
where I’ve been,
what I have
become.

There are those
left in the dark,
for I believed
their ignorance
kept them clean.

It was when a teardrop
fell in the direction
of where I knelt
that I remembered
their hearts.

It was when their lips
spoke of what I
was instead blinded by
that I recalled
the entire feast.

My portion
had been this small
for close to a lifetime.

My walls
had been this thin,
unable to trap sound.