Questions

As my hand moves across the rough paper,

The nib scratches, etching my words, after long,

The stroke of midnight, completing the revolution it started a while ago,

Is it the sign of a new start, or the signal of an end, I wonder,

I just wish for some silence, but nothing gets fulfilled,

The day passes in words, the dead of the night in thoughts,

The rest goes along in the cheers, pushing me back into the race,

Just life; it comes, it follows, and it walks past, all in a hurry,

I can see the lights buzzing around on the asphalt,

Far away in the dark, like ants scurrying for food,

We are quite the same, tiny beings, hungry, greedy and desolate,

I can hear sirens, and my eyes go wide; my heart starts jogging,

Is it a circle of sorts, with the beginning same as the end,

The drop of a pin, the ignition of a matchstick,

The cry of a baby, and the silent wails in the dark,

Actions so small, yet very impactful, like words?

A smirk, a coy laugh, the hint of a smile, as I dot the mark above,

The ink on my skin is drying, the letter sketching making my hand itch,

It ends here, for today, as I stroll into dreamland,

Why is it that we have so many questions, and answers…?