Ruins

A Rorschach of pen ink spilled

Delicately on white clothes,

Illustrating the unknown for eyes

Otherwise closed to the world.

Years ago, Rorschach's images,

Deemed nonger viable windows

Into the brain, became torn pieces

Dali used to melt into clocks.

Open the window once again,

Begged the spilled ink, pining

To be used rather than sopped up,

Discarded as pseudoscienfic,

Unethical, unrealistic, and dumb.

I feel its pain so I peer inside,

Letting the void slither into my irises

And probe my brain as it pleases.