the beauty of simplicity lies out of grasp and tacit.
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a simple stick of incense is a sweet tinder and nothing more.
when seen in myopia.
yet if i could fathom but the curl of a single wisp,
clarity may guide thoughts to better end,
my hand to works of virtue.
though my breath is turbulence to this sweet shroud,
and my stench polutes subtlety beyond recognition,
leaving but a sprig,
with a flame,
to no end.