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.
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