As I lay dying,
my sin has youth.
Who tells me that this match is fair?
An old man
against his spirit and soul darkly,
with only surrendering will as key and sword.
The weights and counter-weights are
undone.
How the scales tips...
I am no more than grain for the war, scarfed down by either starved side.
I feel the last ravaged stalk in a barren field...
How the scales of God tip.