Ink Trails

A shot of something blue,
a spout of something grey.
The sky is of this hue,
and it's shadows excite with play.

Wrinkled and tattered,
unborn and battered.
Scattered across fields,
hiding behind unnecessary shields.

Whispers unspoken,
and much fragile glass to be broken.
Where is the rhythm that follows your mind,
scribing about ink trails of every which kind,
purposely leaving them long behind.

Who will find them, do you think?
when all are dumb-struck to your link.