Remnants of the Dead Goddess

A universe of synapses

collapses

while

She

walks around

the castle.

Theologians dug up

Her words.

Is that what

the ceremony

is made of?

Those passages remain still.

He lingers.

Lodging inside,

inside

those hellish

scriptures:

“The moon cracks open,

He touches Her hair.”

The church shuts its eyes,

while

He nests in

animal doubt.

Late night storytelling,

yeah

I eat that shit too.