I watch nostalgic shops come down and malls rise up—
mauling the memories I once had of me growing up;
Old theatres turned into churches— looking fancy now,
as if church was always about that constant outward wow.
And I question if the practice echoes all that they preach—
the birth, the walk, the cross, the rise, and the reach
of Jesus—exactly what the Gospel of Luke is about—
But it's just loud; more about, what a good look is about.
An unfamiliar reflection grins from this house—
built up for the buzz, and chasing every new bounce.
Busy like a bee's buzz, grinding daily with mugs in hand,
all of us are chasing a good kind buzz in a restless land.
But I knew my youth had quietly slipped away
when I stopped sprinting to match its pace each day…
I just pause and recall how life once came wrapped—
the best gifts were in the present, untouched, perhaps.
And to admire it all like a lover I once held tight—
a fleeting embrace, now only found in a silent night.
She’s both a memory and a moment I meant—
constantly arriving early, and urging me to repent.
So I write, not for fame, but for legacy's seed—
literally a literary testimony – my children will read.
Not just someone who preached, loud and devout,
but one who lived it—so much they breathed it out.
