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The souls of your feet are saints
of coarse calloused rough weave,
the mock piety of the absurd.
"Here," you shout down to them,
"pray get on with it."
They move, after a pause.
The electric message relayed
from the altar, as it were;
where your voice echoes
in the chambers and vaults
under the art nouveau stained glass
windows of your vested self.
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