By His Hand

“Look at that,” he said, “how the ink bleeds.”  
It mirrors the way the rivers  
of the soul soak in the parchment
He loved the way it looked
to write on a thick pillow of the pad
To him, it was like music, a song in his hands–
all of the possible drawings,
curves, relationships–  
all of the answers, questions, mysteries,  
all of the problems solvable in that space.
The pen in his hand,  
a key to the prison, that white space.
By his hand, a new beginning.
By his hand, imagery–flights of arrows
Piercing through the stark confines
Like a sword dashing through the dark,
Revealing a new light
in his work, in his words