I take the quill from my hand
And drop it in the space
Between the sheet of pristine white paper
And the edge of my desk.
Tiny drops of ink
Splatter
Across the white of the page
Forming a path of thoughts
As they congeal into place.
If words are nothing but splatters of ink
Arranged in a way that we have all
Determined to mean a thing.
Does not this splatter
Define the vision of the thoughts?
Of my thoughts?
Of my frustrations?
And so
With a sweep of my hand
I declare that these will be my words today
This splatter of ink
Across the page.
Disjoint Wisdom 