Ledger
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.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
