THE FERRYMAN
THE FERRYMAN
The silent ribbons of
dead men songs curl
upward like
green vapor
from a nameless lake
for the dead
have no voice.
No tree, nor branch
leave a trace
on this
barren place,
a copper
color sun glows overhead,
the odor of
nothingness fills my nostrils
The only sound
the ferryman’s
Pole,
it just a ripple,
no more than a
departing soul.
This is the way we go about
dying,
waiting for the
ferryman,
his strong hands
demanding a token,
a Obolus to
mark our passing.
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