CLASSICAL HIGH SCHOOL

Down the musty halls of the archaic building

whose floors emitted muffled moans

and whose walls were cracked and worn,

we sauntered in our youth in quest of knowledge and identity.

We were the genesis of a generation who would save the world.

Down the corridors that were filled

with the transitory thoughts of students long gone

we carried our books as though they were a shield

that would protect us from an uncertain future.

We sat silently in warm, stale-smelling classrooms

and listened to lectures of ancient teachers.

We sat for years at our desks,

formulating some lucid understanding of life.

Beyond the huge pane windows the seasons came and went...

We were the last class to graduate!

The rusted doors were sealed shut, and we fled the ruins

in search of contemporary comfort.

But the building still stood like a wounded thing unwilling to die.

And when some distant generation demolishes the old school,

will they know what dreams were born

and what dreams died inside these walls?

A poem written after the 20th year Reunion in 1986;Published in 1998 by Creative Arts Books in the book, The Stars Are Listening by Neal Grace