The devil collects them like stones in a sack,
a whisper every time you close your eyes,
sins, small at first, hardly noticeable,
each one a feather, until they’re not,
until the bag drags behind you, scraping,
and you think it’s just the wind in the trees,
but it’s the burden you refused to set down,
refused to confess, to absolve, to release,
and he’s waiting there, patient as time itself,
to trade your breath for the weight of guilt,
to bury you beneath the things you carried,
things you thought no one would ever see.