There is no altar,
You choose that yourself.
Praying in a hundred ways,
Whether my spoken spells of yore –
Or the equivocal mathematics of the scientific,
And empirical methods.
Yearn aloud,
Ask for what you need.
Honor dictates creed,
In quiet wisdoms –
Shared freely.
The Cult of The Wyrm,
Honors logic –
Science –
Truth –
Most of all,
In pursuit of utopia –
Such humanist aims.
There’re no prayers,
Only promises.
To be better,
Seeking knowledge like Eve,
Pomegranate upon the lips.
Make this path your own,
In a hundred whispers –
And ways.
The Cult Of The Wyrm |||.
