An Interview with Sin

As the moon argues with clouds in winter’s tormented sky
A frail life lingers in the shadows
Waiting for deaths hello
To ride the waters of dawn
On a black majestic funeral swan.
.

Through frosted windows,
A whispered presence
Drifts into mortal conscience
Mirrored in dancing apparitions,
Around the candles flicker.
A voice that is familiar
Yet distant in the memory

In the Rocking chair a figure
Speaking, plumes of mist
Looking from a dark abyss
Where once there was a face,
The scratching of a Quill,
Writing, moving across a veil of grey,
Hiding the pages beneath

Words ringing in the brain
I am the collector, the scribe
Your confessor and your obituary
The keeper of the book of time
Come sit with destiny
Shall we begin?

What form shall I be?
An angel to the faithful,
Or the demon to the liar
Perhaps a treasured friend
I come in many guises

For I am the poet of life
Saints and sinners, Kings and beggars
Good and evil
All accountable in the ledger of time

The quill will sense your soul,
Though your heart will try and hide,
The truth, the person that is you.
You were given a conscience
And that will always betray you

Your page is for another to judge
Your existence a statement of your worth
The outcome, the navigator
To where your swan will fly

Fear not, for many sins lie here
The harvests of war and famine,
The indifference of man and
The corruption of the planet
All lie here.

Sin created my destiny, my prison,
I cannot go into deaths kingdom
Not until the sun turns red
And the rivers run dry
I wait for silence to shout his name
Till all that is now is gone,
Then my sentence will be done

The sins of the world belong to me
And the last page waits for my confession
Then too I can take the swan’s journey
Though I fear eternity has no happy ending for me.