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Rated: E · Poetry · Satire · #2208415
The truth is seldom far from home
The Archbishop was riding a comet
In motions of spurring disquiet;
Across the stars as he thrust
He muttered in utter disgust:

What of all this dust,
Through it travel I must,
Seething through the fabric
Of this twinkling dark trick?

'tis surely the devil's hand,
'tis the great trickster's brand
Upon the universe unshaped,
Upon the virgin flesh unflayed!

Swirling, twisting, fell about
Swift as fear, thick as doubt,
The avatar of the infernal plane
A burning grin adorning his mane:

"How unbecoming,
Archbishop of Kel'Dar,
Onto a comet afar
Out of your altar to fling."

"Your church empty sits,
Your guidance forlorn,
Once holy, now torn,
Your old faith drifts."

"Forlorn, I say,
By one mind astray,
By madness, by greed,
By one's awry creed."

"By dust distraught
You fret aloof
When first you ought
To survey the truth!"
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