My ink is a repetition of thought
concealed within a secluded place.
Needing release before fading in obscurity.
But then it is released on to the pool
of white, an echo of conciseness
choreographed in motion on the page.
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
My ink is a repetition of thought
concealed within a secluded place.
Needing release before fading in obscurity.
But then it is released on to the pool
of white, an echo of conciseness
choreographed in motion on the page.
