Ink Stains

Cloud shadows spill like whispered sorrow,

sprawling across the tired earth’s skin.

They stretch, curl, retreat without a trace,

a tide that cleans as it consumes.

They fall into valleys with steady hands,

folding the day into muted crescents.

Greens deepen, browns soften, yellows hum,

beneath the delicate press of their weight.

It is a shifting grief, quiet and cyclical,

rolling up sharp hills, dressing them dark.

A blanket folds, unfolds, restless in its rest,

leaving cliffs naked in the sun’s exhale.

This ink dreams of drowning but fades.

Its touch never lingers, never stays,

vanishing as if it never whispered here,

as if night never knew its fragile name.