i am
nothing more than
a vestige of existence;
an iota of deception.

even if
the rays of the sun
encapsulate me,
the streaks of moonlight
seem to weave itself
with
the empty shell that i am;

the murmurs
of the night-entangled hallways
call out to me,
claiming me as their own.

i am
nothing more
than an intruder
in this borrowed body,
mourning for the tragedies
forgotten and erased.