this poem that's in your hand

is only here to listen

to take all your concerns

with no previous conditions

jotting down all that it can

for later consideration

hoping only to be of help

with all life's reparations

as this poem that you now hold

can neither be bought nor sold

it's one and only mission

is here to freely listen

Our blood is of ink,
Our thoughts are words on a blank page,
We are the creations of imagination
That never fades,
We will ink creation with every
Emotion,
Meeting,
Touched
By every moment that passes
We are the blood of ink
That will only ever spill ink,
The world is of whispers and we listen,
Our surroundings are now blots on a frozen page.

Down cobbled rocks formed
From an abrasive past,
Footsteps gently graced upon these
Pebbles likened to smooth skin
Counting to the investable finish,
As everything starts  
As everything culminates in a end.

But like a inquisitive child
You stepped on those stones
As darkness guided you further,
the light became an illusion,
Like a star behind you never fading
Just distant  memoires.

And yet you still stepped slower
Guided by the smoothness of
The steps beckoning you.
But then the waters that one reseeded
Feathered upon the shore.

But you stepped further to
Oblivions calling, each footprint
Was your movement undecided,
And the waves played happily
Unpon the crest and it washed upon
Every one rippling joyfully
As each was consumed
And then you realized to late.

Your path was an illusion of
Darkness, and it swallowed
What was solid, obscurity consumed
All that was, time was stolen.
In those moments as a clock
Froze and death greeted
And there were steps no more
Just cold onyx  as I sank to the
Bottom of this silent oblivion.