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.