Smoke Rises from the Incense

Smoke rises from the incense. Wispy, gray lines scratch their way across the dark silhouette of a chair. The lines spin and contort before diffusing into a haze in the corner of the room. There, a jet-black stereo rests on the shelf of a wooden entertainment center. It is invisible save a red light hovering

Holy ____, Mother of God

Deep inside me, there is a land,a world much like our own.And, in this place you are a goddess,the beautiful ever known. Beauty is only skin deep, they say.Surely, they’ve not met you.Your splendor surpasses all possible bounds.You are pristine through and through. And, in this realm, locked deep inside,where you alone redeem,my weary soul