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With a torch afire,
past the viscous mire,
I gyred up a spire,
to find a triptych God;
a cosmic debt had been prepaid,
for a guileful garden charade;
all had knelt and prayed,
but I had smelled the fraud.

The modern cult of disbelief,
gave me interim relief,
however, to be brief:
I found it to be a bore;
a group bad with idea,
another mass panacea,
I needed something more.

Finally, came an oldness,
a peculiar kind of coldness,
to fill me with its boldness;
teaching me the art of unbelief;
with augural apparitions,
and crafty quick magicians,
conceiving hyperstitions;
my life, a new emerging motif.

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