The parched paper promotes
the pen's tip to seek the ink
But it won't drink
Until the imagination syncs
With a humble servant
Whose footing is placed in sand that sinks
But still won't retreat
No evidence of struggling
They remain at peace
Immovable in the Word
Shrinking back into pure trust
Glazed by a coating of assurance
It looks absurd
But they seem to be anchored
Their pupils dilation occurs
Letters swirl to make words
Clarity burns into the receivers innards
What was once a written slur
Becomes a focal surge
The muscles in the hand squeeze the pen
And what can be heard inwards is a dirge
The blots of the Rorschach drop
A thickened plot plops
Onto the open heart beating to a stop
Leaving the X marked spot
Jotted with a message on top
"I, Sir Render"