The empty church sat in a country valley with peeled whitewash and creaky floorboards. Pieces of glass, broken over time, allowing squatters to enter with cans of spray paint, are covered with weeds and vines that crawl up the walls in an attempt to hide the evil somehow let inside. Overturned pews, some used for firewood, others as carving boards of crude images depicting wayward youth with too much time on their hands. Litter strewn across the floor like empty bottles and cans, the last drops long since swallowed, and faded newspapers maybe used as covers on cold nights. The pulpit, once a place to hear the words of God, became a place where mockery and darkness brought applause from an audience of traveling nomads searching for anything but answers. I look around at faded walls and shadows of the cross, a reminder he's still here and crying with me.
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