Ink Blots
While out travelling
He wrote to her almost
Every single day
Oh’ how
The ink would flow
From his pen
To her paper and
Then along the
Mid fold crease
A row of bright blue
Rorschach
Butterflies ached
To be set free
He was a poet
She called him
Love
They named
What they made
Together
Art
While all along
The perforated
Mid fold crease
A row of near
Perfect bright blue
Rorschach
Butterflies ached
To be set free
Upon the world
Yet he saw there
Nothing but several almost
Insignificant ink blots