We are of a different cloth, we would
bleed and a verb or syllable would be seen.
Not just our a momentarily seeping of
our essence that leaves our imprint on
where it fell it is a clarity in ink.

We are of a different thought, we see
the world not of sight but reflection
of conduct that is beauty displayed
in perceptions that others don't linger
on, to them its a tree each is a venture.

We are of a different moment, we collect
every second that we each will be inspired
to reverberate that exact collection of being.
But another that sees upon that afterimage
will be versed in a direction anew.

"Inkers see the world different,
*"Were a kaleidoscope of metaphor and imagery.