There's a place where the grass is tanned
and tribal mixtures tend to stand
on the bones of past and present kings,
it's wild deters all human beings.
'Tis sunken in its holy ground
wothout the sound of rain around.
It reminded me of another place,
in my mind.
One that comes when I need it not,
to strangle every healthy thought.
It tries to weed me of my greed
and replace my hate with passion's seed.
When I'm strong enough to cist the urge,
I appear to weird a secret purge
of every trinket I sought to spare:
my itch, my id, my crave, my care.
There's a place, my solitude.
I know my vice is much too crude
to live among the black and gold,
all who burn inside this fold
of time-space.
For pride is manafest inside,
where demons can only hope to hide.
It's a place where all the grass is stained.
But Wisdom's sure it's cousin's strained.

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