I am an imposter.

As I walk these halls,

In and out of fatiguing doors

Which glare at me with disgrace. 

These walls wish to contain me

And I wish to be contained.

 

I know that I am time.

And I know that I am timeless.

Residual phantoms pace the halls-

Staggering to an entrancing staircase,

Searching,

For an unborn child.

Pure distress, or absolute bliss- are inseparable.

 

I want to fall out of time,

To rain as ashes do,

In their celebratory way of destruction.

In mourning, there is bliss.

In mourning, I can drift and sway 

Into the comfort of my nothingness.

My fingers made of sand,

My body that of glass.

Transcendence.

 

All sanctity of life,

Violently disheveled.

Easter comes to resurrect the martyr.

I gave myself away centuries ago,

But I am not the savior.

 

As the imposter,

It is only by fault of my own

I lost my bones.

Spare me,

The effigy.