Out My Office Window Poem by T.R. James Bray

Your steeple is crumbling.
They're stripping crosses to melt
for some return.
The bell is gone from the tower.
Sunset reflects an orange hue
across your chiseled walls.
A fire rages in the eyes of many.
I watch you out this window, year after year.
You are quiet, now rented to the highest bidder.
Grey is your stone that lifts that tired beacon
beyond the roofs of the town,
above the leafless trees.
Now, you're illuminated with external light
rather than the One
before.
The one, that built you from within
and allowed
for all the deception.