Three days’ time.

Sometimes,

Death is a too-close

Whisper. 

It buds like a beaten

Drum, soft in the beginning

Until it whirls deep beneath

Skin and pore.

And all the love lost to it,

Memory stinging the wound

Of those still breathing, faces

Shoved against the night’s

Window pane, eyes searching

For puffs of breath from those

We used to know.

But in three days’ time,

You removed that vacant

Loss beneath breast and bone

And quieted the relentless

Beating in our brains.

You who loved Lazarus

With an intensity

And all the tears 

We were born

To weep.

You braved the deep,

The underbelly,

The breeding ground

Of sin,

And rose up 

Against it,

Pulling life 

From a deathly

Grip and conquering

Our hearts

In the process.