There’s an old deserted church
at the end
of the gravel road.
Its steeple, once tapering high
into the country air,
rests toppled on the earth
and points no more toward God.
Its bell, once full of melody
echoing into the hills,
hangs cracked in the tower
calling no one with welcoming tones.
Its altar, once illuminated by hues
from stained glass,
remains barren
stripped by windowless color.
Its pulpit, once alive with words
to enlighten and encourage,
stands vacant
void of faith and compassion.
That old wooden house of worship—
in its brilliance, it was us;
but selfish concerns distracted the faithful,
leading to neglect.
Churchgoers, blinded by apathy,
barely noticed the gradual decay;
they ceased in their worship,
gathering only upon occasion.
Repairs remained unattended
until its structure, empty and isolate,
could no longer be restored.
And so now here we are
at the end
of the gravel road.