Judgment Day

I wonder what the woman with
red hair sees as hungrily she glares,
skillfully to sort the damned from the meek.
Before her elusive eyes is a procession of
the sick, the sinful, the careless, the weak.

I wonder if she knows that
Sinners are always dressed as Seers,
and how often a clever disguise for disgust,
and lust, the demons of jealousy,
will evade her careful eyes.

I wonder what words she will choose
when I stand before her
and she plays for me the eager arbiter;
I wonder if her list of merits and demerits
will be complete.

I wonder if she knows how I yearn to hear
that voice she so enjoys, those whispers of perdition.
She exults in them, my Sirens, sweet secret songs
of Fallen Angels offering me precarious fruits.

And finally I wonder in secret, so softly,
whether they could say something new.

My conscience is the Judge and the Judged
seething in its ambiguous agony,
so I have forgotten whether
Truth can condemn the exposure of Reality.