Futile ?

The hand , it trembles 
As it lay out another timescape  atop the outstretched parchment 
What is  the reality ? 
Is this just another argument within oneself ?
Another map ?
A destination in the waiting ?
Or a trail left for another to follow 
The black ink,
 it drips from the quill like blood 
Puddling into a mirage 
Images of insanity ? , 
a conversation with oneself ?
Or recollections 
Is this a craft ? , or a crutch ?
A consuming addiction 
A way to torture an already broken heart 
Or a soothing elixir , for which it is to be dipped 
Fingertips growing numb 
Is it the lack of blood flow
Concluding another segment of a repetitive tide 
Or a commencement to an eye opening ode 
A recipients revelation , and an excepted invitation to Eden 
The waning inspiration behind the trembling hands, and the ebbing of the ink within the quill brings forever to the forefront , the question that has been looming over these runes , if they are in fact , and have always been 
Futile ......