Old Church

Standing alone, a stark alabaster shrine,
Its bells now only echoes in the wind.
Filtered light spills through stained glass,
Melting, multicolored, upon the altar’s worn embrace.

The crucifix clings to its nailed sacrifice,
Gazing down with sorrowed eyes
Upon the voiceless pulpit, darkened with use—
A silent sentinel in the hollow hush.

A dusty hymnal, its pages torn and yellowed,
Lies open on the pew, whispering forgotten prayers.
Tear-stained echoes linger on the altar, broken—
Left for dead, for now, abandoned.

/Unknown

Take a look in Old Church