Three Wise Mutes (An Epiphany Poem) Poem by Francie Lynch

Near death stories
Are not death tales.
The widow's daughter,
In Nairn, to whom
Did she speak?
In Bethany,
Near Galilee,
Where Lazarus
Learned to talk,
Who asked him
On his walk,
With his dog on a
Sunday afternoon?
Jarius' daughter
Would like to offer
A quote and goat
At the altar
Of atonement.
She was never asked,
So she never spoke.
The scribes never scribbled
To answer the riddle;
They never went to press
With the Extra Big Scoop
On life after death,
The direction from tomb,
From the three
Who knew best.
Never recorded for all time.
Never a word from their minds.
Would they tell of a
Long lit tunnel
Lined with familiars
Slapping their astral asses
As they ran the gamut
Into ethereal eternity.
Nearing the Eternal Throne,
They hear:
It's not your time.
Go back for more.
Keep the secrets,
Believe in Him,
For he won't
Live to be thirty-four.

And so it's not written,
Let it be so.