Where Silver Drops

One coin for passages oar, one soul for the boat to float

sink me until the warm water runs cold and wait for his grasp—

for the reeds never tire, as death surely outlasts

our one true expire.

The languid black waters of Acherusian do not move.

They have not moved for centuries, instead they wait—whispering, silent callers, bobbing in the ether.

Cooing silver reeds bite the skin, slithering, slender foxes that break against the rivers-edge like dry, withered bones.

Desperate for respite, brittle and hollow—they beg, they weather, eager. eager.

Come into my waters. Take me from my misery, cast me home.

Let me soak in the palm fronds and sea water foam of a sweet, sweet death.

Let me scrape the waterlogged edges of the Erebos— demises ink stained hull fetching more tired souls to ferry, a shroud of midnight, slacked sails and sunless glory

Whisper the names of those who cannot pay, those who cannot speak

A singular coin pressed under their tongues, weaving in the shallows, weak.

The reeds reach up, clawing with thin, sharply-pointed fingers

To pluck the silvery gold from your lips, your mouth, your beak

Wanting, waiting, wishing to drag you down to the bottoms peak

To be another root that feeds the darkly growing peat