Trails Of Ink

Howling winds cut through the untouchable air,
passing through the strands of our tangible hair.
The sun slowly setting in awe as the world ends,
and as the day retires the night begins to ascend.
Stars whispering among themselves in the blanket of dark,
the black cloak that engulfs the skies to sights afar.
The sweet sound of silence that barely touches our ears,
caressed by the idea of a soothing sleep that we once feared.
Sleep is the sister of death they once used to say,
overwhelmed and in fear of sleeping they'd stay awake.
Insomnia befriending them with every night that passed,
whispering in their hearts that rest was a thing of the past.
Is there hope for a new morning filled with a new light?
Can we survive the cold that is felt down our spines?
Will death take us today; or will he turn the hourglass,
and extend the deadline in which our souls must fly?
Our hearts beat the rhythm of life and purpose,
and if we can't find it; we consider ourselves worthless.
We let our thoughts dwell in the ink trail our pen leaves,
preparing for a horde of shadows that aim to hurt us.
What is peace in a world in which it does not exist,
and it shall only remain a dream our ideas of bliss.
Illusions that veil our hearts that cause our blind eyes,
yet there is inside a will to refuse and resist.