Very beautiful piece!
We are creation.
I don’t care who says it was an accident.
Have you ever spilled ink
into a perfectly written statement?
A statement that agrees,
until one day the truth that it has held so dearly, squirms
And all that is left is a broken fragment,
looking elsewhere for needs to be met,
in a desert all desolate,
longing for a purpose.
It longs for a penman, and longs to know that it
spilled ink on a page;
The fragment becomes a tragedy,
a very tainted masterpiece,
broken and groaning for its author
while in heavy chains not willing to release.
The spilled ink which is
blacker than black;
darker than the death
of which the broken fragment
can taste the sting.
The ink becomes blood,
blood that was spilled,
into the greatest
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