In Vein

There is a saying
That writers have ink in their blood
My ink shouts and trembles on the page
My blood is fire and lightning and
The echo of a cavern
My heart, lonely engine, grinds on
Drumming in my chest
Pushing against the cage
A beat-up old shop, looking for purchase
My ink does its job
Speaking and thinking and drinking in the
Minds of those who turn eyes onto it but
My blood is what bellows and
My body’s parchment can scarce contain it

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