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,
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.
All sanctity of life,
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.