Genesis 12

The altars I build are not of praise,
or thanks,
but of pain.
They mark my steady progression
into nothingness.

But isn't it better to be real,
true,
myself,
than a suffocating lie?
From where I stand,
a mortal,
either way suggests
a coffin,
waiting
for a premature death.
Death to myself,
or death to what I once loved
(or have I already died to both)?
My chances don't look so good.
Grim, in fact,
and awaiting harvest.