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A Villanelle poem I wrote about Greek mythology's famous ferryman. |
| Upon the Styx, my oar divides the night, A ceaseless toll, the coins still weigh my boat; The silver gleam, the souls, my only light. I ferry ghosts where shadows stretch and fight, Across this inky river, we must float; Upon the Styx, my oar divides the night. No end, no start, just endless looping flight, My ancient hands grasp tight the wooden throat; The silver gleam, the souls, my only light. A part of me delights in their plight, Their stories bleed, from spectral lips they quote; Upon the Styx, my oar divides the night. Yet, drear grows the timeless, weary sight, Of weeping shades in their damp, darkened coat; The silver gleam, the souls, my only light. Do they see joy in their final rite, Or does my face their final hope demote? Upon the Styx, my oar divides the night, The silver gleam, the souls, my only light. |
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