Ledger

Hereto while my soul lies dying, throttled by the winds of change, hobbled by the wrath of ages, nothing but a gasp remains. There abides a wisp of pity tempered with a shred of grace, an iota of compassion on this saint/sinner's face. I'm not meant to meet my maker till I've done what I must do to set the ledger to His liking, strike a chord 'twixt me and you. then will I be granted access, pity, grace, compassion mixed, I won't need exoneration, all my feats and foibles fixed.