The Running Man

I wrote this poem about the recent death of a close friend of mine. The world lost a wonderful warrior of God. But what is our loss is heaven’s gain. I will forever remember his brave, compassionate soul.

The only contrast here, in the City of Gold, is the ample gems under my feet. Fluorite and tanzanite, topaz and amethyst, emerald and sapphire rise up, waiting to be polished by my alabaster skin. The sensation of tingling pressure in my limbs is new to me.

By His blood I have conquered everything, and, nothing; yes, I’m here awaiting you all to teach you the art of gratitude. But I, too, look forward to something new and glorious every day.

The terracotta mountains tremble when they see me running towards them. I’m something of a personified sphinx: like a wild, free lion I pounce with pleasure on that foreign feeling of pain; and like a graceful gazelle I spring from rock to rock, ascending further and further, into the mystical.

What was merely a dream in your world is a ubiquitous reality with God. With my eyes like saucers I see Him so clear now—the face of a proud Father and kind Mother. He waves me up smiling at my every foot’s fall.

My fingertips feel the electricity between me and the celestial Half Dome. The charge flows throughout my new Trojan body, down my thighs of bronze, through my sandal-laced winged-feet, and finally down to your clay vessels, through a beam of light, connecting heaven and earth.

Don’t take a single sunset for granted, either in the city or countryside. Know that I’m enjoying the same cyclical dance of star and rock, from my predestined position, on top of a mountain built on divine promises and eternal rewards.

Here time stands still but joy abounds. What was once my crutch is now my spear. Achilles is my name, without an Achilles’ heal. I am no longer the half-man, half-chair my wife and son remember me as. ‘Round here, I’m known as The Running Man, and when I run, I feel God’s pleasure!

Until I write again, through either sunset or sea breeze, sunrise or West wind, I await your familiar faces in a sky of seductive redemption.

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Categories: Poetry/Short Stories

Chester Delagneau

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