Whenever I enter this dilapidated structure
The scent of its past descends over me.
Its frozen glory thaws
Ever so little… with each fresh visit…
Raking embers of insular memory.
Nostalgia grips me.
My views about re-birth heckle at me
And I assume with verve
Some heroic personality
Of a king, painter, poet, warrior, sculptor,
And mason of this pyramidic construction in turns.
Fantasies of love; mystic, fairy beauty; and
Sacrifices at altar play over again and again.
I feel at once the touch of brush,
Of nascent paint, the awl and a chisel
Graphing and boring me to shape,
The fragrance of unfolding youth,
War cries, massacre, mass funerals,
Vultures pecking at my flesh,
The nimble feet of a dancer
Gently tossing over me…
The clasps of rain and a cascade of vandals
Carelessly etching their names on me.
A sense of identity and unattained glory fills me
Tincturing the wounded present to heal
As I try to withdraw
A chord strikes somewhere
Rolling down… a tear or two…