Ink

Ink is to me like a horse’s footprints;
leaving splattered stains on skin,
where, if you examine the obsidian tint,
see its mane flowing—follow the stallion.
Tread along its paths,
wonder what its steps narrate.
Hopefully, the aftermath
reveals to us our wild fate.
We may be unable to count the distance;
All these miles, feet, and inches—
yet it validates the existence
and minds of those beyond ancient.
Prancing, leaping, dashing at every turn,
evading capture until it decides to adjourn.