In the twilight,
The temple ruin glows eeriely.
Whiffs of breeze race through,
What was once corridors.
Tattered screens,
Which were weaved of silk,
Are now nothing,
But poor imitations of spider webs.
A howling echo,
Haunts the ruin,
Renonsating on ripped canvas,
Covering weathered stone.
Bits and pebbles,
Marble and plaster,
Scatters across the mosaic floor,
Creating nests for critters.
Dust, cracks,
Are all that's left,
Of what once was a place,
A place of worship.
Nature has made it a play pen,
For its showers and gales.
Earth has made it a shamble,
For its crawling children.
Even the most sacred wall,
Is now in rubbles,
Its mural hardly decipherable,
The mural that took years to depict.
The temple is now a ruin,
Its stories carefully erased over time.
Moss and dirt,
Was what it became in time.
By Lady of Scartha
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