Charles Church and Me

These hallowed grounds
did quake with grief.
You tried to steel my footing
like a stone-cold thief.
But, I held up the doorway
to regain my peace,
while you hurled bombs at me.

One of your many talents,
I know too well.
You would kiss me goodnight,
and then bid me to hell.
Grace isn’t a place
from which you fell
as far as anyone can see.

The beautiful thing
about when everything breaks,
you get to rebuild
from ground-0 stakes.
Your heart won’t always beat;
it just palpitates–
a hammered chest to rapidity.

But when the dust settles
and all the smoke clears,
the church bell has fallen.
No more tolling here.
This gathering place seems lost
to the 2nd-Great-War years–
like Charles Church bombed, entirely.

I grabbed a shovel
and dug a legacy to last.
I held up my middle fingers
to your iconoclast.
You can’t erase stories
with a 300-year past.
I’m even more beautiful now, you see.

Though my roof was blown off,
my walls are still stout.
I now light up an island
from the inside out.
I’m a place of remembrance
on a busy round-about.
My ground remains a sanctuary.

You can’t imagine the aura
when that glow shines at night–
a skeleton-of-a-church,
giving way to the light.
It’s a victim of blitz
that put up a fight–
built to last as a testimony.

If you can bring yourself
to make that drive all around,
you’ll see that your war
couldn’t be won on my ground.
Without a roof, or stained glass,
we’re still structurally sound–
Charles Church and me.