Dead Men

Dead men come to visit me,
Arriving late at night,
Even in early morn,
Placing hot fleshy hands,
Which I clearly see,
Speaking beyond the burial pit,
Where their souls have been stripped and torn,
Firmly touching my uneasy hand,
So ghostly and free,
Quietly commenting on how we're all reborn,
Serious eyes focusing from the grave,
Where one would imagine them still to be,
A look that is far from wicked or forlorn,
Oh how warm and alive those dead men's hands,
Yet as those dead men stand there,
Staring down by my bedside,
I can see that they're wond'ring,
How life is now,
Considering they're dead now,
No longer abide,
Existence as we know it,
Bathed by day and night,
Yet ethereal somehow,
They speak simple phrases,
While I lie there amazed,
Looking up at their intelligent faces,
Wond'ring if I'm asleep or awake,
Or just half dazed,
Their words are generally few,
I wonder if they'll leave traces,
After they're gone,
Departed like the vagrant light,
Once they've touched me,
Marked me before morning sight.
Was it a dream?
Or was I awake?
Did those dead men truly appear?
If so what did they take?
Am I still whole?
Or have they left me torn and in parts,
When they spoke their clear sombre words,
Did they leave some lasting mark?
Any scars or holes?
Any memorable wounds,
With their healing arts?
Again I close my eyes,
Dream of distant Ararat,
And that sacred lost Ark,
There in some ethereal mist,
In a remarkable cloud,
All standing together,
On that high mountainside,
We're gathered together,
Gazing down at the world,
All those dead men,
Standing tall and erect,
All out of their tombs,
Shoulder to shoulder,
With crowds of soldiering Angels,
So I assume they haven't lied,
As I stare at their faces,
Look into their deep eyes,
Wonder if we've been saved,
And there on that rugged mountain,
A burning bush enlightens that early morn,
All those dead men,
They're smiling,
And I know in my heart,
Life is reborn.