The monk within.

I.

In the hush of dawn, he kneels on broken stone,

a man cloaked not in cloth but scars unknown—

his silence, a scripture, etched in ribs and bone,

where hunger chants and solitude has grown.

Each breath he draws is war against despair,

a monk in flesh, with burdens draped in prayer,

unmoved, though storms have braided through his hair.

II.

He walks the cloistered path of beaten men,

where dreams are ashes and hope is a fen.

Yet from his chest, a steady hymn ascends—

not sung in sound but in how he mends.

Like beads he counts his past regrets and tears,

stringing them into rosaries of years,

each bruise a bell the future dares to hear.

III.

He fasts from vengeance, drinks not from revenge,

but cups the wind where peace begins to hinge.

Where others rage, he bows, but not to break—

his strength is forged in every vow he makes.

To fall and rise is carved into his creed,

his will a blade the darkness fears to bleed,

a sacred oath sealed not in words but deed.

IV.

In silence, he debates with ghosts of fire,

their whispers bent to break his lone empire.

But he—he plants his calm in burning sand,

a reed that bends but will not leave the land.

Though loss has turned his temple into dust,

his soul remains, an altar built on trust—

the kind that blooms when all things seem unjust.

V.

He is no monk of robes or quiet halls,

but one who walks through ruins yet still calls

the light to rise inside his shattered chest.

His life—a scroll the heavens might have blessed.

A man not spared, but sharpened by the pain,

his journey carved in silence and in rain—

a monk of will, unbroken by the chain.