Breaking Ink

Breaking ink shoots up,
only to fall in concentric rings of silence—
a silence born of all the clutter,
held together to possess another,
another layer, another mask,
as the ink splatters, seeking form at last.

Another pulse, another beat,
a pot plugged with rhythms so sweet—
rocking to the sound of glogs that slide
along the lines where thoughts collide.
Gel shines through with a brilliant gleam,
yet proves its inability to wield its beam.

Light bounces, fractals of numbers dance,
a cacophony in the fluid mind’s trance.
Thoughts tapping through the cracks,
a mounting jug filled to the brim,
overflowing with endless needs,
a reservoir of desires that never recedes.

Breaking ink, splintered into veins,
a river of black that stains and remains.
Silent screams caught in the gel’s embrace,
a thousand voices muted,
lost without a trace.

The light tries to shine,
but it's swallowed whole
by the fluid pangs that consume my soul.
Thoughts swell and break against the glass,
a jug too fragile to hold what’s amassed.

Endless needs swirl in a maelstrom of ink,
and the silence grows louder the more I think.
The gel glistens, the light refracts—
a dance of chaos, a rhythm that cracks.
Yet nothing is certain, nothing is whole,
just fragments of longing,
the story untold.

Breaking ink falls, returns to the void—
the silence rings, the mind is destroyed.
Yet from the depths, another thought takes flight—
a pulse, a spark, a flicker of light.

For in the breaking, something new is born,
a cycle that rages, a storm reborn.
The jug overflows, the ink takes its form,
a symphony of chaos, both fluid and warm.