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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