The split ink flows along the page like branches growing on a tree,
and me,
I watch it as it goes
and wonder how it knows the many patterns it creates.
The split ink stops,
regurgitates
then off it skates again,
a thousand mosaics in the split
I wonder how they all fit in,
the nib, a memory store where ten thousand memories score
across the page.
The page I think was meant for ink, the split is lit up bit by bit and
I, in awe,
see,sit and saw it all.