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  • Writer's pictureShelby Brown

Spilled Ink

What if spilled ink

Was nothing more than

Dense words compacted

On your muddled page?

Not a mess to mop up,

But a message to sort out.

What sort of message

Would we find in the

Deep recesses of our pens’

Neat ink cartridges

If we simply poured

The squished, squabbled contents

On these ivory pages?

What wisdom could we gain

From the concentrated mess

Devouring our pages?

Or perhaps they don’t consume,

But give meaning

To the sheets already devoured

By the dragon of the void.

Perhaps your spilled ink

Isn’t the mess;

Your blank paper is.

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