Spilling

No one writes something
with quill pen and ink
since days of believing in small things,
and laughing for unnoticeable reasons.
One elbow brushes blindly against
the glass container filled with blue
or black
and unwritten words rush out at once and bleed
through the corner of paper
like thoughts.

So other methods were devised.

The people scramble to keep up with time.
Eyes always forward, always in pursuit.
Days are always faster; never running in straight lines.
They cannot lay claim,

and the ink spill widens.