The River Styx

The shore is black.

The air is thick with the scent of old grief.

And there, upon the heavy water,

Cometh the Ferryman.

​The Silent Crossing

​Darkness reigneth here.

No sun shall pierce this gloom,

Nor moon light the path of the hollowed soul.

Thou art come to the brink,

Where the waters of Styx flow like leaden wine,

Cold.

Bitter.

Eternal.

​Hark!

The rattle of the oar against the gunwale.

Charon waiteth.

His eyes burn with a light that is not life,

A flame that feedeth on the dark.

Give him his due,

One silver coin for the passage of the damned,

Lest thou wanderest the bank for a thousand years,

Wailing.

​The river is deep.

The river is ancient.

It bindeth the world of the quick to the dead.

Touch not the spray,

For even the gods do tremble at its name.

The current pulleth.

The mist swalloweth.

Thou art gone.