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Spills
He fell and made a wound.
From the gash came a voice.
It could make little sense,
sputtered, and drowned in the blood
which ran in spite of it.
He rose and made to run.
Signals flared to ground him.
By their incessant wail,
his aspirations gave
and he was given too.
Interesting...the words, as
Interesting...the words, as the poem is titled, seem to spill as if some pieces missing. Unique.
...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."
"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "