History is etched deep into these walls.
Though painted over with white, the paint hides many things.
Pillers have fallen, destroying many artifacts that will forever be a part of this building.
Memories, photography framed.
These are the hands that continue to be steady with evey hit.
Every hit they give and take.
The statues: silhouettes of those lost, weather to death, or a cause.
Paintings line the white walls,
And roaming through here
Many wonder where this all began,
But the mind, the heart,
They cannot be depicted by a single moment in time.
Not one single work of art.
The canvas holds tragedy and heartache,
As well as the most joyous moments anyone can behold.
History is not text books and classes,
It is a brush to a canvas;
A pen to a journal.
History can never be set in stone,
For stone is tangible,
As shown by the statues of the lost.
History can consist of lies,
But here, in this place,
Truth is valued above all.
Here, in this place,
I want you to know you are not alone.
Call it a safe haven,
Or leave if you must.
I will always be here,
And, I assure you, so will you:
An artifact, a work of art.
Always seen as true beauty,
Even as you walk away.
