The Inquisitor

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A dreamer too awake for good
With too much time to speculate about morality
Is playing with fire.

A well-trained climber in new territory
With overconfidence as a compass
Is scaling higher.

The zen master creating new realms
With the steady hand of conscience,
Is trembling slightly.

The world rendered existent,
With a multitude of thoughts upon its shores,
Is a trifle unsightly.

A doorbell recently employed,
Minimum wage, paying rent,
Has acquired a sore throat.

Someone walking in the halls,
With a lambent torch in hand gazed at the portrait.
With silence to keep him afloat.

A falling star quit his job,
And suspended in mid-air within my room,
Multiplying the number of my visitors.

A dreamer far too awake for silence,
Breaks the air with an echoing “Hello.
I’m known as the Inquisitor.”

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