Visits

I have been to a place twice. Once in bustling daylight and the other, later, in imagination. When sleep sings in slow breath and time smudges night, I go there again. The charred souls of dying lamps, brim over to meet the dark. Their wicks lie limp, swollen with oil and hope - pale glistening yellow, like stained teeth. The winds sweep their burnt slippery scents through the hollow pathways. A few flecks even reach where the stone gods rest amongst fragrant bribes.