Dying Age

A Poem by Neversee

A penance extracted
In a casual phrase
All misdeeds protracted
And thus becomes the dying age

I wouldn't ask you to linger here
Yours a more robust flame
All the world macabre is mine dear
I swallow the entire bitter blame

I'll carry it into the shadows
Where all things die in shame
I'll tend it near the gallows
For it is only mine now to claim

Wash your hands clean of the soot
Of embers that smoultered ill-gotten
Walk free of the darkness mistook
Leave it to the closing gate of forgotten

A ragged wretched ruin of a thing
Best left to those with soiled hands
Grave-digging my speciality it seems
I'll give it the attention it demands