Stigmata
Andre Matos
walk with me down to the water's edge
where the mirrors lie and wait...
this feeling speaks
with the quiet flutes of fall,
that disturb the sleep of sunken images,
the memory of voices in abandoned rooms,
it breathes darkly through a lonely man,
the kiss of brother Cain...
walk with me down to the river's edge
where the secrets lie and wait...
these wounds bleed
the solemn pride of mourning,
an overwhelming pain nourishing the flame,
the cold embrace of breaking hearts,
and though the nails may hurt
don't take this pain away...
this sadness speaks
of golden plains and lakes of blue,
like the curse of a wrathful god
like dew dropping from a thorn,
it speaks of things in secret tongues,
it is speaking out a name