She sits on the bow and dangles her feet A rigid, cloaked figure looms on the stern She runs her hands across the skeletal vessel Thick mist twists and slivers past her cheek A coin-filled cage hangs off the Ferryman's arm as he pulls an ore through the ominous glow A rusty lantern rocks and steadily creeks Bright green flames lick the Ferryman's robe Into the void, into the churning ink He gently rows across the river of woe where no one hears her scream
You deserve a better version of me, I'm merely existing; constantly drowning myself in Bourbon whiskey. I've been baptized by my demons, chastised with the heathens, yet I'm blessed to have you on standby; patiently waiting in the Garden of Eden.
Your words shape themselves into blades and knives and carve deep into my heart, the places I didn't know existed. Should I be glad that I found new places or sad that I'm hurt?