Stigmata

A Poem by Neversee

Inconsolable am I
Stigmata to my palm
I can't close my eyes
I can't find calm

I have to find the place
You can't reach me
Not your Edgar Cayce
Crawling on bloodied knees

Gathering shiny shards
Tiny once happy pieces
Pink rose pedals crush hard
In late Spring snows

Didn't they tell you?

Bend the stem too many times
There will be no bloom
In the houses of the holies
Brittle little minds fill the room

I watch my breath in dampened loss
Some things are meant to be broken
We can't begin to measure the cost
They say we're better for what was spoken

I trace the scar in my palm and wonder...