Buckets of ink

Lately, i've been sleepy from around 2 in the afternoon to 6 in the afternoon, and very awake and hungry from 10 at night until the minute i go to sleep, which is usually after 2 in the morning these days. I don't know if i like this, but i'm quite sure i don't.
Sometimes i am lucky enough to be hit by inspiration after midnight, as i was when i wrote this poem approximately ten days ago.

Buckets of ink
wash over the world,
seeping into crevices.
Inevitable.
Willow trees turn to charcoal
statues.
Elongated shadows,
encouraged by velvet darkness.
Few can defeat it.
Heads nodding violently forward,
cupfuls of sand
spilling into buckets
framed with eyelashes.
They will succumb.
Somewhere, deep
in the sound
produced by silence
one may catch a glimpse,
a glimmer of dawn.
Twinkling morsel
from that of dreams.

Can you guess what it is about? :)