our secrets are purged
flown like flocks
of tattooed birds
leaves the throat exposed
grafting parchment
over nerves
this vellum salve
is not to cover
that which hurts
but swear new ink oaths
poets know
the gods they serve
freshly spill the gift
the letting
redeems the curse
glistening of quill
surge of arteries
that burn
bloom on paperskins
sewn with beauty
blood and words
and so bleeding black
the scribes that loved
at every turn
when we are gone
let it be said
upon this page
our poets bled