No one knew from whence it came
its pendants, tubes on dusty arms,
wires long coiled await in vain
for the power to show its charms.
It hangs there in a once-white church,
clapboards pitted now by blowing sand,
on the edge of a dry and windswept town,
the only spot of beauty in church or land. .
Inside the church, splintered benches
askew on dark and dusty floor,
ragged muslin curtained windows
masking it from light and more.
A waste of beauty in that deserted church,
that desolate town, hopes gone for rebirth.
Chances gone to connect with source
to reveal their latent worth.