Church Comes To Life Poem by Micron Jan

I step inside, the air is thick with age,
Musty and damp, a quiet, hallowed cage.
Ceiling wood dusted, shadows linger low,
Paneled pews in lines where no footsteps go.

Beneath my feet, gravestones whisper time,
Plaques on walls tell tales in silent rhyme.
The morning dull, the sky a leaden gray,
Inside, the church mirrors the world's dismay.

I sit upon a pew, cold stone around,
Rows of hassocks, hymn books worn and browned.
Fingers of the past have traced each page,
Echoes of voices from another age.

The chill creeps in, a shiver through the air,
As I gaze at the altar, solemn, bare.
Brass cross and candlesticks gleam faint and dim,
Guardians of worship, worn at every rim.

Then the sun shifts, finds a stained-glass pane,
Multicolored rivers flood the nave with flame.
Life and warmth cut through the damp and gloom,
Painting the old church with a fleeting bloom.

For a moment, history and light entwine,
Cold stone and sunbeam, a sacred sign.
The past still lingers, yet now softly bright,
An old church breathing in the morning light.