Black sketches in my minds eye.
Ink flows into rain, clouds, crows.

A pen my hand won’t hold,
A line my soul won’t write.

An artist eye looks out of my scarred face.
The beating of the rain clutches at me
With hands of stick figures and dust.

I am stilled.
I am stopped.
I am half of me.

The inky black crow flies on
Leaving my eye smudged, and longing.