It's over.
Inquisition's ended.
Perhaps what you wanted
was divulged in dribs and drabs
over the years. You finally got the picture.
Still, though, I'm left dangling,
a composite conversation unsaid,
hopes for liberation unmet.
When does conscience kick in?
When will you finally have your fill?
In the meantime, if you choose to see
where I'm going with this, you have
the power to set me free.
You've been saying the opposite,
that I have the key. I turn it and turn it,
hear the mechanism whirr and click,
but no tumbler's final resonant clunk,
your reasoning (honestly?) morally defunct.
A child refusing to admit the game's over.
Time to wash your hands, get ready for supper.
Homework's all you have to look forward to,
as you, master of procrastination, put it off
far longer than was sensible
So, tally up the score, find a way to reframe
all you've learned to suit today's autocrat,
tomorrow's draconian measure.
As you peer and peek, seeing only a reflection,
you end up knowing far more than you bargained for.