Like Birds that have flocked,
to a mind that is blocked,
they would nestle there,
like ink blots.

Blotted ink had stained his thoughts.
You wouldn’t think,
it was bottled ink,
that blocked out his kin.

But then there was that blocked sink.
An apartment like his one would think,
something had died –
Death by Ink.

To think with all this ink,
no mind can function,
with all this irritation,
ink had hurt his skin.

Blots and Dots.
Bottled ink pots.

He stole glances at the clock,
heard no tick but the occasional tock.
The Birds had conjured their flock,
to a mind doomed to be blocked.