Lazarus died.
No relative
had a change of heart
and took him in.
No friend
at last came to his rescue.
No magnanimous citizen
became his benefactor.
No.
He died.
Most likely on the rich man’s
doorstep
where he’d begged daily for years.
Filthy,
rags for clothes,
hungry,
wracked with pain,
covered with sores,
he died.
But the angels
took him to heaven.
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