By choice he always sits alone
He makes capacious notes
Rarely moving very fast
Never raising
— old dust motes.

He never talks, nor glances up
He keeps about his task
And what he writes of
No one knows
— nobody thinks to ask.

For a thousand years he’s sat there
Quill moving slowly at work
Memories hiding in his head
What secrets
— in there lurk?

And in this library of the dead
Where all about is still
Is every single written word
In dark ink
— from his quill.

Tasked to record every thing
That happens everywhere
He’s scratched away for many years
In punishment
— that he thinks fair.

On Earth he did the foulest deeds
In Limbo he pays the price
Knowing he’ll never leave this place
He was told
— on good advice.

The Devil finds all the sinners
And they don’t all burn in Hell
There are punishments far, far worse than that
As this man
—would surely tell.

©Joe Wilson – Purgatory is hell…2015