Confessions Made in Ink

Every glance,

a confession made.

 

Drenched in ink spilt,

by fate's hate.

 

The same ink,

your cloak to this day,

is the burden you bear,

attempt to lose your way.

 

Every glance,

a heartbreak.

 

Every glance,

a confession made.

This poem is about: 
Me

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