Sunday, July 25

On a night typical of nights back then
I left for a lonely walk through a fen
of miasmic, cold, abhorrent thoughts.
Christ's AGE had done and the door was opened.
With my comrades I now set out; one had brought
The stuff wherewith to brew a potion,
a Gnostic Eucharist of ergot wrought.
Taking this, I danced in dervish motion.
One may believe in or against anything
But its substance resists one's tampering.
I whirled and twirled then stock-still stood,
And drank the air, redolent of burning wood.

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