Poetry is such a fascinating art to me; I love to read the veiled mysteries that are hidden in our subconscious. I also wrote poems in my teen days, well, if we could call that poems😅. Poetry, visual art, music, ambient movies, and catchy written books have always satisfied my thirstiness of subtle evasion; thus, it’s normal that these words and lines I like reading so much, now spill from my heart and mind.

Spilled Ink

Flower buds spilled from ink,
And from my heart grows out flowery words
Like beauty stirs into the day
So does ink upon my sheets,
The words morph on their own
And a new world of color is born
Those inks drip, and they all seem
To make their way till a new road 
Graveled of new dreams and scenes. 

-Eiravel-