words don’t spill
like they used to
and flow to you

some are bottled, waiting for the cork to pop
others are closeted in conference
in a place so dark, light fails to fall

those that languish in a self imposed prison
scar the insides walls of the heart
creating graffiti, bleeding with every breath

those that await winter
freeze in anticipation
of bursting pipes, escaping into the unknown

the story, as old as time
rehashed and rerun over and over
the tears, fresh as the morning dew

FOWC: Spill