amidst broken wings
of buttresses that fly no more.
At my back a lone tower
rises defiantly skyward,
a forlorn symbol of hope.
I see the walls, the windows--
the work of centuries
ruined in a moment.
"It is much easier to destroy
than to create," the remains whisper
as I make my way to the altar.
Two burnt sticks stand there,
the only remains of a roof
designed to lift eyes to heaven.
A cross.
The Creator conquered destruction
that we might build eternally.
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