Rendition

Nervous hands precede the most unnerving of thoughts The end justifies the means, and so the deed must be done A sweaty, candle-lit dungeon sets the inquisition's stage As Heartbeats crescendo to a deafening gallop Who better to conduct the interrogation then the dark Lord himself The commander of all swords, companion of tyrants and saints Mr. Parker, one of his many field names With a bed lamp vision, peers at his pale quivering subject What infinite labyrinth do you pose to docile minds? What stillborn fetus comes to boil in your cerebral caldron? What scorn lies dormant in your deepest of thoughts? Tongues can’t be trusted, so what truth do your eyes tell? The pen tortures the page till it screams in haunting agony As dark tears confess every single dirty truth