Empty husked steeple bleached bone white in rising sun
Slanted sideways ground moaning under the pressure of a thousand sins enclosed inside, windows sharp and glinting, behind layers of two by four gaps where light shines between, cutting prison bars into dusty air where dawn breaks through violet gloom in shadowed daggers that pierce the entrapment.
Footsteps rustle a history of dust and poverty that whirlwinds behind footsteps, gathering in throats, choking out breath and mixing saliva thick.
Color leached out as desolate as the desert outside, reclaimed by wilderness encroaching into civilization:
You are not welcome here.
Sweep up dirt and the lives of a handful of people that worshiped here.
Did they come for Jesus or company?