Wordspin

Thoughts spill onto the fibers of my page

-droplets of silver blue sink in and leave a stain.

It’s why I fall asleep with pen still in
hand .

Trying to capture a moment

that pools to the bottom

like cracks in sheer ice that melt into the

pale yellow rain I hear outside.

Drops pour down gutter bound,

furiously pinging, shoveling through

transforming letters into a

construct of words.

Stains become oceans

and sentences flow

moments remembered become fluid

again.

Connected and liquid,

like the river and the sea.

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