Hereto, while my soul lies dying,
throttled by the winds of change,
hobbled by the wrath of time
'til nothing but a gasp remains.
There abides a trace of mischief
tempered with a shred of grace,
an iota of confusion
on this saint/sinner's face.
I'm not meant to meet my Maker
'til I've done what I must do
to set the ledger to His liking,
strike a chord 'twixt me and you.
I will need exoneration,
all my mischief set to rest,
then will I be granted access,
take my place among the blessed.