Church Poem by Thomas Ware

The arcaneum lies,
And metastasizes through the hope of a prize,
And when you die,
And rise into the skies,
You'll find that your demise was all devised,
And that the arcaneum lied.

For at the heart of magic is the hope of material gain,
Even at the cost of pain,
Or blood on pauper's graves that heap shapelessly in rain.

And death is a tool,
To inflict on others,
To illuminate the nameless black,
And to escape retribution.
Power is the root and soul of the arcaneum's lies.