The subtle sun of silent dawn,
As a bashful little fawn,
Shyly crawls through all the fissures.

Between stonework the light slithers,
Illuminating cracked stained glass,
Reflecting dimly from corroded brass.

The dreary drab is wholly gelid,
Like the bones that lie embedded,
Protruding slightly from the mud.

They bloom as springtime buds.
Relics forsaken and forlorn,
Never shall they be reborn.

Amalgamating with the dust,
With putrid grime and rust,
Eternally decaying in this crypt.

A grave so grey and nondescript.
Housing souls so withered and so rotten,
To be overgrown and long-forgotten.