I stay hidden beneath billows of dust
It's been ages since I was read, with trust.
How wonderful the days I was found,
Perused in the quiet, without a sound
I looked for the change in my readers' eyes
(I cannot see, but I sensed, in disguise)
As my maker's words jog a memory,
Detect emotion, chase it to be free,
When they recall, when they feel, in their core
They relate; They aren't alone anymore.
It's nice to be understood, to be heard,
To be visible without saying a word.
So I shall lie, waiting, for the next time
The soot is cleared, and someone reads my rhyme.
What I imagine a forgotten poem would think, as it lies in wait, through history.