Wary I am of the mist which rubs out sunshine.
The innocent child rests in peace in Mother's lap;
The proud learned finds no entry at your doorstep.
Your path shows itself, that I will tread,
Those who flock to show the way stretch the quest
They beckon me to join in worship,
But when I arrive at the shrine
It is not god I find, but a charade
Made of their own perversions.
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