You were the judge, the hangman and the noose, the dunking tank, the cold cold water drowning, the fire burning, blistering and bubbling as I was tied too tight to a stout wooden pole of your cutting, and even then, you brought out the red hot poker to blind mine eyes, and a dull knife to remove a tongue lest I challenge you too much with a stare and a word.

I thought the ancient Popes had packed their robes up long ago never to be seen, along with their minions of shallow hates and ignorant fears done at your bidding, oh resurrected inquisitor visiting me in the dead of night, my fate already seems sealed no matter the answers I give to each question intoned darkly at me.

You poor poor soul, how I plea for you to be rid of your own righteous indignities that have darkened your soul that won’t let you truly feel free.
But you remain to just be, ever highly posted in your heaven on high

As I slink out the backdoor with a tip of my hat, a sly grin, and a wave goodbye knowing lady luck was on my side to have never let me lay down in bed by your side.

By Philip Wardlow May 27th 2026