I must watch you die because I have decided that your crimes are too great for life.
I cannot say who has given me this authority, only that it is mine.
It is mine because I understand justice, and you,
You with your crimes, do not.

How much death can we cause before the earth rebels?
If I stare at these words hard enough, they will leave the page and shape themselves into an answer.
We are dealers in justice, in life and death. I will pardon him, and her,
But you will die.

Which is more beautiful: a haystack or its painting?
To perfect is to destroy.
To correct is to kill.
But we were created in flawlessness. Have we become alive in our sin?

I am not a good storyteller, but every now and then I sweep a tale out from under the sun.

Your scars are beautiful because they are yours, and mine.
Our imperfections carved into your skin,
Healed and evident. This is what was, and what is no more.
It is forgiven and forgiveness is hard and discolored.

Mercy is ugly.
It is for this ugliness that I let you die,
I watch the justice slowly bleed from your body,
Bright, lovely, free of compromise.
No birth, no death, only righteousness.

Look, look, my love, you are holy. You are drowning in holiness.

I am running.
I flee from my origin. The world is ending.
I live because of compromise. I live because of mercy.
Because I was born, I bear in my being the marks of death.
Because you are dead, you bear in your being the marks of birth.

Good bye, my dear, good night.
I will bury you under the living sun, in the dust of stories I have yet to sweep.
Someday I will gather your remains and empty them into tales.
You have a finger on each page I write.