Spillings

Spoilage foliage of a morning dull. Caffeine fixes, stitches cracks. Then when i write, i could not find the beautifully composed lines of yesterday. I failed to box them, they all flew like manuscripts blown by the wind and into the sea. Ink smudged, washed away. It was water based. My mind was and still is water based. Better to just spill, and let paper drink on until it is drenched, then perhaps later I could dry the words out and see if mosaic has been formed. If it is art, or trash.