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Spilled Ink

Art is god, filled with the essence of creation. All the beautiful things webbed in broken pieces of souls torn out from the mind into reality with ink. Times and ages confirmed such immortal talents. A tragic imagination raising perfection. The spilled ink inputs patterns by deep inspirations. Sourced from the wounds of the mind, healed on paper. The moments tranced the viewers. Peace be unto you, the magnificent duke of sweet broth. I am trapped in the liquor of art. Erow.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017




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Date: 1/13/2017 4:26:00 PM
Nice piece of poetry, Ogheneruru..... congrats on being featured+++++
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Date: 1/2/2017 8:23:00 AM
Ahh yes...Art! And what is art - Who knows? I guess it is so many differing things to so many different peoples. Perhaps it is something that possess "Functional Beauty"...An intrinsic quantity that is indefinable when fashioned in its own unique identity? Beautifully scribed, Ogheneruru. My best wishes for your forthcoming New Year! :) john
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