Down the street
and around the corner
stands a building.
old and ragged.

a building well loved.
but its doors remain shut.
this was my home once,
memories echo in the air.

its white paint peels down
its doors don't lock
its windows rusted shut.
but this is my home.

stain glass widows, long forgotten
the cross at the door, stolen.
the alter can be seen sometimes.
if you're willing to look.

its walls still ring with the sound of the choir,
though no people sit in its pews.
the preacher still stands guard here.
waiting to give his last sermon.

through the windows
you can still see
a boy
and his girl,
as smaller children now.
waiting for the chance to hold hands
there, in the pews of our home.

this is where we found our beginning.
in that old ragged church.
and there they wait no more,

with its failing structure,
and its falling walls.
its rusted windows
and sealed doors
it belongs to us.
but there, they found the end.

it is much how the two children are now.
Older, but no longer
waiting,
waiting.
Waiting
To hold hands any longer.

Now they
avoid,
avoid,
avoid.
That failing relationship
With its fallen structure
And falling walls
Rusted windows
And sealed doors.