It was the way he was, they said, the way he came back when he came back from that place. No one knew what it was like, he would never tell them, but it was something hidden, something dark, something to cause a noise in the blood. Once he did say (only once some said), “I do not miss the world I grew up in. I do not wish to walk among the dead.”
This poem is deep, but seems deceptively simple. Lazarus could well be yourself or anybody who didn't have a particularly good experience of childhood. To have survived it, to be an adult after the trauma of that, is a miracle in itself.
A noise in the blood! Seems every poem you write has something that just jumps off the page. Thanks, again.