Biscuit

Trae Miller
I am but a silent monk.
My robes are naught but golden.
Disciplined am I.
My mind and body have no correlation.
Through the fire I am forged.
I walk the valley of darkness
Awating my demise.
Through the water I am forgotten.
Wading through rivers of defilement.
My robes, lacklustor.
My soul, tainted.
The fiend of afterlife lusts, but not for me
I awake, in a realm of renaissance.
Weaved back, are the threads of time.
And return to me, my simple sanctuary.

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