Stigmata

I hear a rhythmic sound
Like the hearts of seraphim,
Beating in time to the bell
Of the presence which draws near.
 
It is as if the light has left the room
When the entrance is vocalized.  
But my heart is in his chest,
And I don’t know which skin I am beneath.
 
There are faces in his eyes.
He is in my mirror
(We share these veins)
And there is blood
(I only want to end this)
In the palms of our hands.
 
There is no shelter from this body.
Am I alone long enough to escape?
To be free of substance?
I pray it is just the blackness of sleep
That dawns within the solitude.
 
Is it justice which befalls the self-slain hand?
Is this vengeance upon the unwanted flesh?
Is this the altered state of my wandering?
Wilt thou inflict the flames of stigmata
Upon the wound that never bleeds?
Yea! To what end doth thy face, so like an angel’s
Gaze upon ruined fields of the Plutonian bloom?
To what end doth thou mirror the unseen scar
In my eyes, made demonic with the brimming
Of the life which drowns in the blood of my dreams?
Wilt thou, in thy beauty divine, view nothing more
Than broken glass? Alas! It is all I see as well
When my heart is in my hands.
And how it slips through my fingers
While I wonder if I have come home.
 
© 2021 Marten Hoyle