Ledger
Hereto, as 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 wisp of evil
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 Your liking,
strike a chord 'twixt me and You.
then will I be granted access,
evil, grace, confusion mixed,
I will need exoneration,
all my faults and foibles fixed.
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