The Ferry.

Charon sits at the edge of his ferry

A singular drachma in the palm of his hand

burns through his skin like

Gorgon’s blood.

Another day at the ferry of dead.

The Styx below, a mocking blue

Stained, imbrued with screeches of

Each spirit, different and alike

Each spirit that regrets the past.

The boat below, taking them to the other side

Yet he has forgotten which side is which.

He knows, alas,

That sometimes the destination

Is darker than the beginning.

He knows, alas,

That the dead soon fade to whispers 

fainter than memories

Until even the living forget to mourn.