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