Synoptics in Italics
On a tangled web, woven
Among those still not chosen
We rise and fall in equilibrium
On id-est to quod-erat continuum
Yet the dismantled cobweb cloven
Whence those who lay still, frozen
One dies and we, verbatim,
Mourn or celebrate in triduum
Hollowmass predates antediluvium
Of the Eve and Days of the mutuum
All the Saints and All in absentia Souls
Register—are entered—ad Mortem Scrolls
But it's not all calligraphy
Some webs are scripted wretchedly
And penmanship can go awry
Vis-à-vis how lived afore they die
Some lives mystify Him, to whom,
Sits, hereafter, in judicium
When the record cannot be deciphered
The memoir cannot be recited
Elysium or ad Hades, the dead must wait
Until written, pro Veritas, their letters straight
And why the motion for passage, hence
Must be placed in continuance
Come Día de los Muertos
The season of the witch is, for those,
Closed on the rolls for the no-longer living
Unless, primum est, He is forgiving
To live the right life, it must be written
In the handwriting that the mortally smitten
Can deliver in toto as a matter of fact
Such that the One, reading it, need not redact