|What is wrong with this you ask?
Hmm. Tricky, this isn't something I would normally read.
I think the main problem here, it's rather preachy, almost a sermon delivered with gusto.
If this is your intention, i wish you well.
If on the other hand, you're attempting to tell a story, this is where the problems occur
Point A to point B via a series of events, people and circumstance.
Define what it is that you are trying to do. Plan the journey on which your readers will be taken.
I can't tell what you should write, you are the author. There are a few technical issues to watch for.
Repetition, something we all have to beware. Myself included.
It can be used to add impact, used sparingly.
Maybe this is the LAST city, the LAST(final) stop. He’s DEFINITELY watching me now. I can DEFINITELY(delete) smell his HOLY HUNGER, the truth of HIS machine and HIS plan, the grace of it. He is SO good to be doing this and this machine is SO easy to use. Walk through the beautiful wooden doors, commissioned to a THOUSAND THOUSAND of the best artist to ever live in Europe, how cosmopolitan, ECUMENICAL even. Let the secular build the Babel, let Us ascend it, how wise of him! Just step inside, right? Relax, breath(e). Smell the incense and candles. The ash WILL COME OFF, the grease WILL COME OFF these white robes. The music composed by the greatest, the most single minded VISIONARY VISIONARIES hearing the highest most INVISIBLE IMPRACTICABLE spheres rubbing together, COSMIC SPHERICAL VIBRATING crickets that never annoy you. Oh, music is not ash, nor are We. GIVE AWAY THESE teeth, THESE eyes, THESE wrinkles. GIVE AWAY this mind as it tries to escape ME, tries to confuse ME; We need it only to GIVE WAY. GIVE it a shove as it cops out on ME. MY machine won’t fail. MY automatic confessional, MY unrelenting purgatorium. It’s only left for ME now to be what I am. It’ll do all the work. I just GIVE WAY. I just GIVE AWAY these feet, THIS skin, THIS ash. It fails ME now anyway of no use to ME as it was of no use to them. Thats the machine at work. The curing purge. They were sick. He watches ME through a screen as I burn and asks me questions about myself. He seems INTERESTED, it's nice to be asked, for someone to be INTERESTED again, not like on Sundays. He tells ME I don’t need to answer or sing or even pray anymore, IT'LL be alright, IT'LL all go away. Sure is kind of Him to ask. His smiling eyes are mine, I can see through the screen now. There's only a little irritation, can't be helped, it's for the best anyway. Could it be more simple to live than to die? The warm of the machine hums away the urge TO ANSWER; the compulsion TO ANSWER TO myself. I don't need TO ANSWER TO anyone but Him and he doesn't mind if I don't ANSWER. He already knows. So warm. I HOPE TO FEEL the flight. HOPE TO FEEL the soul I AM, I know I AM; what’s left from the ash. The escaping energy is me. I AM its feeling. The burning is me, not that which is burned. The rising specter is me, GLIMPSED by NO ONE. There is NO ONE left to GLIMPSE or be GLIMPSED.
And the body dies.
So much repetition in such a short piece, paired closely together, like fingernails down a blackboard.
Holy Hunger........ beginning with the same letter, reads slightly adolescent. (Righteous Hunger?)
Thousand thousand-Visionary visionaries??????
Cosmic spherical vibrating.... so many adjectives
Ecumenical... an example of your overuse of a thesaurus (alternatively-universal)
There's no doubting your knowledge of words, you don't have to demonstrate this with every sentence.
Sometimes less is more, in this case, much more.
I realize this review may seem severe, but it's low rating and your initial question tells me that this is old news.
I've given you advice that should improve this piece, it's designed to be as helpful as possible.