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.