Rorschach had it right.
Everything is something
else, especially when stretched,
etched in ebony. These puddle-pressed
places are filled with trees
and breeze and pools of whisp
-ered wish, my scattered footprints
washed over by my own saltwater
ways, each phrase dipped in song
and sorrow, blot thoughts caught
and spilled. Take a look in this
slender mirror of sweat and blood
and ink. What do you see?
Come on now, think.
Visual prompt from The Mag.