Murky blinds keep the darkness in.
A kiddie pool of ink, and an inkwell indeed.
Scribbled and scrawled, it's illegible.
Blindly numb, if not deaf and dumb.
The peace lies in the sanctuary.
Don't deface it's moral code.

Simply put, there's a whim for survival.
It is a fleeting hope that rakes like a crow.
In flight of its fears, but chasing its prey.
It hunts in plain sight.
Nobody flocks to help it when its downed,
Because it would take the help with claws extended.
It never apologizes for the hearts it has rended.

Whether he or she can find the light is a mystery of it's own.
All but few can recognize the shadows trailing behind.
Control the shadow and you're the light,
And burn the moths that come too close.