Spilled Ink

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Very beautiful piece!

Spilled Ink

We are creation.

I don’t care who says it was an accident.

Have you ever spilled ink

accidentally

into a perfectly written statement?

A statement that agrees,

that trusts,

that affirms,

until one day the truth that it has held so dearly, squirms

away.

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

wasn’t just

spilled ink on a page;

an accident.

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,

on purpose

into the greatest

love story

anyone could

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