Ink Cloud

When I went searching,

I didn't go looking.

I listened with ears

pointed, out-stretched,

past my head,

and waited

for a face to emerge

in the static silence

when I wasn't looking

for a face at all.

In the middle of my penning

I heard some semblance of form

and could not escape it.

My mind said, "that is becoming a face,"

And to reproduce it again would be my fate.

Now it stares at me,

and I try to turn off my ears,

to see what it is showing me.

While it peers through the gaps

of my chaotic dis-equilibrium,

I would know not its form

had I not gazed and guessed at the clouds before.