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February 17th, 2023 (6th Iteration)
In Memory, Floyd Russell Taylor
Also, Dedicated “In Pectore”
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Having arrived just prior to demolition,
As if this were the gift of a scar to mark God’s favor,
I was permitted to revisit the wings of the seminal seminary
Where I had taken my deepest breath,
Where my timid mind began to fly temerity.
Distracting furniture had been extracted.
The peeling paint seemed the ultimate last word
For a pithy blackboarded message:
“The wrecking ball is already in flight.”
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Either get the hell out or die.
I walked those halls alone that day, a living ghost.
I lingered as if I had fallen in love,
And I was being punished for unwanted affection,
Forced to witness the scene of my innocent crime
Decay, crumble all around me into the dust.
Up high, staring out a window, in retrospect,
Was I day dreaming of a future reawakening?
Yes. I dared to envision a beneficent fate.
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At last, when a second quickening commenced,
Of course, just as before, it too was susceptible.
I heard yet another story book shut with a thunderclap,
Drop with a thud. In my delusion, a soul mate departed post haste.
In that aftermath, I lived as if backed to a wall.
My life seemed an empty, derelict place.
I didn’t know what to think. But I knew what to feel.
Now, the swell of emotion quelled, looking outwards,
What am I to think? Well, get out! Find your way…or die.
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How sounds the voice of a God we’ve discounted as dead?
He chooses a human to deliver His message into our ears.
Hear. Open your eyes. Dare to envision a moment as Fate.
Long ago, as if living out a story book of vivid pictures,
I pointed to a tattoo, innocently asked: “What does it mean?
Evidently, I had committed a crime. The reply: “That’s personal.”
God was not pleased with this messenger, replaced him with another,
Decades later. Again, I pointed to a scar: “What does it mean?”
He smiled, interpreting the marks, stripes, the iridescent dots.
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“It is the story of my life.”
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As if on wings of temerity, I followed him out of the room.
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Its ghosts beatified, that beautiful room is now empty.
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I bequeath it to You.
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Steven Golden
January 30th to February 13th, 2025
stevengoldenpoetry 