My Home Isn't My Safe Haven

I

I. Dying Embers of an Incense Stick

A tune of fake fervour aids
The waltzing movements of the wisps of smoke around my fingertips -
An abstract dance that comes alive,
A film of memories, of thoughts.
I can
Taste the spice of mother's kisses,
Feel the ash of father's arms.
I am lost in the subconscious
(A deadly trial),
Though whose it is remains unknown;
The embers' taunts are nothing but a speck,
Until all fades to dark
And I remain.
Tormenting.