Black Casebook

I am slathered onto a canvas with dirt and oil crawling under fingernails. Coughed up with charcoal, an accidental rorschach. Just the cold surface of a drawing board, nothing else behind that pitch monstrosity.

I am more than a monochrome pastel wreck. There is more between the pages of this black casebook. A broken heart of an orphaned boy and the tears of a man hurt by heated romance. Children held the spine and lovers caressed the cover. Poetry laden pages with molten feelings pouring through each letter. There is a story to every piece.

I am not all that I appear to be. My raven's feathers can trick the eye. I am storm cast upon concrete and the gentle breeze in early may.

I'm a black casebook but my pages aren't grey.