Mightier Than My hands are cold, cold, bleeding, and calloused. Once they scribed beauty with razors and ink, filled voids from heresy, anguish, and truth. Upon a time gentle, smooth and unmarked, fingers write music, skin ripples through into two sacred soul-shards glist’ning before me, singing through blood, thrumming harmonic chant, both what I’ve been and must choose to Become, one Choice of Lust and the other of...