Faded Ink

What then am I supposed to think,
confronted now with faded ink,
as words I’ve longed so hard to write
might vanish softly into the night?

It’s how it feels when time turns real,
when flesh betrays all hearts conceal,
and the hour grows cold and late—
leaving me left with just my fate.

Facing what I am meant to face,
but not a shred remains of grace.
Without any chance at a reprieve,
I'm left again to write how I grieve.

Yet such is how the poet lives—
on blades, on edges as no one gives
a second glance to my ink or plea
or why I do write so compulsively.

Longing just to spill one drop,
unsure I’ll ever know to stop,
scribbling fevered, fractured lines,
uncertain still of any grander designs.