Neville

Ink Blots

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