The Nameless Altar

If I ever had a soul, I burnt it long ago at some nameless altar.

Did smoke rise up?
Did it smell like sandalwood and sage?
I bet not. I bet the altar is bare.

I am left suspended in the air over my body,
like one of those novelty candies
with a dead scorpion inside.
Dusty on some gas station shelf
in Arizona or Texas.