Purgatory
When will my judgment come? He asked
of him, who stood, face shadow-masked
in moonlit dark, beside his right.
Don't let it be this mournful night.
Perhaps so, or not; has, or ne'er,
they rasped, exhaling rancid air
so brackish foul to cause a soul
to wish for Golden Oriole.
Who asked, who heard for judgments call
within, without, or none at all?
And yet, the shadow questions so;
and answers as a cawing crow
of dreams for which they dare not ask
the truth, but hide behind a mask;
as he, or they, for we are many.
They lay upon their eyes a penny;
I still have tales to tell, they plea!
They spoke; what is you ask of me?
What's done cannot yet be not so
you held that power long ago
and sold it, for this coin we give.
You think that they can now forgive?
He smells them near, their sulfurous breath;
is this a dream, the truth, a death?
Death is for those who felt some pain;
who smelled the flowers in the rain,
shed a tear at sunset's dying glow;
it is not yours to now foreknow.
They softly say with whispered threat.
It may well come, but not just yet;
there's time for you and I to play,
for you to waste another day.
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