A congregation of maidens gather
in ancient wetlands.
They stand exposed
under soaked nightgowns.

Like cicadas they awaken,
shed their skins, and scream.
They know not their purpose,
but understand the agony of breathing.

They journey their whole lives
with only carnal instinct
to this condemned marsh.
A quagmire of primordial fluids, staining humors, and foul miasma.

Aggressive weeds tear at their ankles
leaving them caked
in blood and mud
their gowns asunder.

The pilgrimage has left them scarred,
after a lifetime of wandering and weeping.
The rain is incessant.
An unrelenting mist.

The maidens dance and sway
around an infernal pyre.
A single devotress performs atop.
She spreads her legs, and is burned inside out.

The others applaud and celebrate her display
as they eagerly await
their chance to burn.
Longing for the same praise.

A dozen immolations, a hundred,
It is her turn.
“I’m not sure I want to.” she confesses.
A confusion spreads, “Why not? You’re already dead.”

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