The River Styx is not for fishing
Nor is it for skipping stones
It is for weeping, wishing,
and collecting polished bones

One can float for hours
Lulled to sleep by the ambience like a lullaby
Until the waterfall drops to Tartarus
The pit of unholy things mankind would deify

There are the eternal towers
Home to those frigid burning chains
The ticklers and tormentors plan their artifice
On it all like a fond memory the waterfall rains