I see, shrouded in grey, a dancing scent,
Choking up my reeking ephialtes.
Every morning a slithering serpent,
Venomless agent, bestriding the breeze.

Charcoal coated bearer of aroma,
Wreathing orisons in holy mansion.
Trim lit womb, a cure of chronic trauma,
Turning to ashes, twinning its stanchion.

Filling the void of the rusting trenches,
Longings of barren hearts quietly barged.
Bracing rituals of mournful wrenches,
Fumigating odious sins discharged.

Burning to death yet rising up with flair,
A hypnotic smoke of sandalwood heir.

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A/N : This is my first sonnet ever and this time, instead of writing about an abstract emotion, I've written about something concrete and tangible, i.e., incense sticks. Their refreshing odour and undulating smoky ripples have always fascinated me, especially because of my love for dance. What do YOU think of them?