56.

There were cold stairs everywhere.

Once, they would have welcomed faithful souls into its generous cradle but now they stood defeated and bitter, intimidating and wasted-reminding footsteps of the blasphemy they sow.

Corridors of memories curled around the heart, suffocating the lungs like a dormant, vengeful octopus, refusing to let go of what once was.

Nobody could master it. It always stood firm and rebelled, teaching anyone who tried a lesson in defeat.

It kept its secrets well hidden, disguised and locked away behind broken ghost windows, sneering at the outside that could never look in from broken seats.

Piercing the clouds, like an erect obscenity defying the god it once aimed to please, it’s life of joy always tempered by its history of sorrow.

This wasn’t just anywhere. It could never be forgotten and it refused to disappear, resisted becoming yesterday by remaining just beyond tomorrow.

It was more, to many, and less to few. But more or less it was always something, old, revered, hated and new.

It had feelings and stories, and promises and stolen time.

It could never be possessed,

but it will always be mine.

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