Spilled Ink Flower buds spilled from ink And from my heart grows out Flowers, words, beautiful things. While beauty blooms from the day I spilled ink on my white sheet Materialised, the face of a tiny Faye. These words morph on their own It’s spilling, and dripping, flowing And a new world of colour is born. These inks drip, and they all seem To make their way till a new road Gravelled with new winged dreams. -Eiravel-
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 can call these 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.