I Bled Scrolls in the Wilderness

They thought I disappeared.
But I was being written.

Not by pen,
but by fire.
Not in ink,
but in blood.

Each night I cried out
with no reply
a scroll was forming.

Each rejection,
each silence,
each ache I couldn’t name
He was dipping His quill
into my suffering.

I didn’t write sermons.
I bled revelation.

There were no crowds.
Just caves.
No applause.
Just thunder
shaking inside my ribs.

I did not study this.
I became it.

The wilderness did not kill me
it crowned me.
The dry places did not silence me
they gave my voice weight.

I carry scrolls now.
But only because
I bled them first
when no one was watching.

—Joe Restman
Mystic-Scribe | Flame-Bearer
Quill Dipped in Lightning ⚡️