Or: Psychopomp
A feather rests on the scales, waiting for your heart
All the words you have spoken captured in a book
Each breath you have taken, a stellar work of art
All the tears you have shed flow as a bubbling brook
The raven and the jackal usher your soul here
This liminal vestibule between life and death
What’s left of you is paper-thin, your eyes are clear
Will you be judged just? The dead cannot hold their breath
The weight of your life is dense and yet spread thin
More massive than a spoonful of neutron star
The scales balance and still, you can go further in
The psychopomp will see you through, will lift this bar.
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