Sceptic        

 
The truth, he thought, was what he thought about,

While he declined, he thought, to nothingness.

This thought, he feared, might somehow lead to doubt,

And he, when dying thoughtlessly profess

Belief in something other than this truth.

Temptation stalked him like the dog he took

On walks to ease his restlessness. In youth

He had denied; in youth had dared a book.

A second. And a third. Then more. They lined

His past as they had lined his anguished brow,

Which had become a mappa mundi, where

The curious could plot his searchings, find

How he had fought his first belief, who now,

Almost apostate, breathed a childhood air.