Ink
envelopes sky, spilling infectious blotches.
a
fluttering blue canvas is stained in black.
we're
most alive now; stars are our hearts' notches,
bruised
with indigo and crumbling souls with beauty.
the
Pen of Night writes with a heavy hand;
its
dark medallions soak through the layers of day.
its
scratches are merciless, leaving behind a scorching brand.
light's
trace is gone, shadowed for a seeming eternity.
there
are stains now, and it seems they won't mend,
but
keep hope, our hearts scream; in time wounds will heal.
the
sun still lives; even the darkest of evenings must
end,
dying, dissolving
to a smiling Everglow.
