They call it a practice, but really it's a life.
They call it a life, but really it's practice that never ends,
that never reaches perfection, that
never sees you satisfied and resting on your
laurels.
He speaks ills into the ether,
ignorant of his own hand
in the maelstrom, you think
out of this soil I grew,
No wonder the laurels are
too gnarled
to rest on.
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