Patchouli, Sage, & Melting Nuns

God has no place in this pyre,
this combustible funeral scene,
surrounded by empty, leaky sockets
from inside frozen, waxen faces.

We are crying together, aware
by some third eye or premonition
that this is the last time for forever
we will manifest as a phantom pain,

as one sobbing mass, the leftovers
of our supposed trespasses, trauma
bonded at the hip and the heart,
wholly alone; some worn-out queers

confusing obligation for fate,
reading loosely formed fortunes.

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