The Blot

Born after a great big splotch
The ink was just right, not too mild
There he sat under the watch
He was the blot, Rorschach's child

Digging into him, the paper crease
Nudging at him, siblings seven
Stamping on to him, finger grease
Inside the envelope, his heaven

Dawn breaks and the sun bakes
Shreds getting bronzed every day
He can tell when the patient fakes
Makes up shapes and runs away

One day even his envelope
One day even his ink
Coagulating into time's gallop
It wasn't as convoluted as you'd think