Ink spills across a canvas wide and still,
A quiet bloom of shapes both sharp and soft.
Black pools expand, then fold into themselves,
A mirrored dance that drifts through endless thought.

A butterfly, or is it reaching hands?
A crown of antlers, or a spreading flame?
Each mark reflects a world not yet defined,
Where every gaze might offer up a name.

The silence hums with answers left unsaid,
An echo of the mind’s own secret voice.
In symmetry, the chaos finds its calm,
And in its calm, the chaos leaves a choice.

Is it the sea, the sky, or something else—
A shadow carved from whispers of the deep?
The shapes are patient, waiting for your soul
To give them breath, or let them softly sleep.

A Rorschach of the heart, both dark and bright,
It bends and twists but never breaks the frame.
Serenity in ink, its quiet gift—
To show your soul, and ask you, Do you see?