Ink

Ink, like blood, runs slowly down the pages of our minds.
It reveals secrets we'd never hope to find.
As all hidden things are revealed,
the answer does not become simple
but, rather complex.

Ink, like blood, runs together
consuming the pages in its destructive fury.
Everything we worked so hard to hide
becomes tainted within our thoughts,
destroyed by one drop of ink and another and another--
slowly saturating these pages in our heads.

Ink, like blood, has the ability to hide and be hidden.
Paper reads lies, yet the ink discovers truth,
for that is all it knows.
The bloody pages of our minds become our captives,
locked away in the deep grave we slaved to dig.
Why work so hard if we'll never see these secrets again?

Ink, like blood, is forever our secret's tomb.