It appears on my hands
As dark splotches
As black smears
No need for a Thomas
To probe their truth
They are there, they exist
As portals to words and spirits
Practitioners and progenitors of the faith
Stains assuming the quality
Of through and through wounds
Letting the breath of ghosts and giants
Pass through them
Chill winds of inspiration
Urging my writing hand
To cramp desperately about my pen
Drawing my eyes from
My hands and the blotted ink markings
To the waiting page
Where fresh ink will pass
From heart, to hand, to pen, to pad
Transubstantiated through the act of writing
Changing ink into blood
Blood into words
Upon paper made flesh
This one rings many bells, friend.
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