Temple

What remains is silence: smoke
curling upwards from incense
smelling of sweet Taiwan.

Golden moccasins soundless
on worn floors,
gathered incense muted of life
hold the weight of beautiful
fools.

The incense they clutch create
touch carries
memory carries nostalgia:
desire of seamless contact,
past and present.

Stories
trapped in incense.
ends buried in giant urns of sand.

 

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