Each sentence is a susurrus <br />that softly from the grave he whispers. <br />Analeptic, Lazarus <br />is sermonizing during Vespers. <br />His eyes are bloodshot and his skin <br />is mottled black on parchment beige; <br />his mouth curls in a gruesome grin <br />as words emerge, a cold cortège. <br />“Don’t speak while eating, ” he was taught, <br />but not “Do not speak after dying, ” <br />and gives his posthumous report <br />denying death which he’s defying. <br /> <br />He’s desperate to tell us all <br />about the place where none but he <br />has been, a dead man in a pall <br />which muffles his obscurity. <br />He tries to speak the words forbidden <br />to those who breathe while hearts still beat, <br />although we see the darkness hidden <br />within his wordless winding sheet. <br />Believing it may be allowed <br />to publicize what graves would hide <br />he is mistaken: death is proud, <br />permitting no one to confide <br />his vision of the other side <br />once tombs are shut and mortals die, <br />and therefore, with his tongue untied, <br />his susurri appear to lie. <br /> <br />4/29/97,5/22/07 <br /><br />gershon hepner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lazarus-2/
