Like a stone rocket aimed high,
The pyramid sits in eternal pause,
But launches my spirit to fly,
Transcending the mind’s accepted laws.
An immaterial soul can drift free,
Across and beyond sky and water,
A gossamer seed from the garden tree,
Seeking true beauty as an imprimatur.
Ancient construction of many years,
A stationary hope, this edifice of size,
Where kings and queens had their spheres,
And, future life was a prayful surmise.
Their day is past; their rule is ended,
Encrusted mummies lie at rest,
Kingdom’s reign has been suspended,
All for naught, the royal’s dusty crest.
Soul’s memory ‘tho can endure,
With wondrous speculation, a bit obscure.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.