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Buddhist Fog

Pooling sweat, moist and hot, clothing sticks, along the creases of armpits. The air is so heavy, a thick, cumbersome smog among tropical life, and Pad Thai noodles; the spirits create this Buddhist fog. Satan stands, in gold disguise, statue of lies, watching over his city. He laughs at God And mocks, “Oh Lord, where is your pity?” For he taps his foot and the people gather, like speedy flies, to adorn their devious master. Their temple of Hell is a dragon in glitter, breathing in incense, blowing out fire, slipping flames under windowpanes and forked tongues through slightly open doorways. For praise, this god enslaves. With burning incense – he burns the innocent, scorching the hearts of sons and daughters, whom he leaves to rot, on street corners of brothels and bars. I am left to wonder “Lord, have you forgotten these people?”

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