Who would ever dare then think
about these revelations in ink,
each drop bled out upon the page,
but meant for some distant, finer age.
Or so it seems within this dream,
while I pen away on a poetic stream,
scribbling lines through sleepless night,
in this hesitant, yet artistic rite.
Each inky confession drips and spills,
as I list all my empty, unfilled thrills,
try not to dare or even confess
all these things I still obsess.
All the places I have been,
both in virtue and in sin,
have left their mark, a branded scar,
etched in ink like a fading star.
So, I delve deep through endless night,
consecrate every word I write,
in hopes to lift this shrouded veil,
from those who would dare so assail.
I like the metaphorical analogy of how life writes on you, and thus you write in transference – a poetic picture of every impact, a future reference for the ages. Deep as always, my dear.