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Mar 2020
A chill of Styx water runs through my heart,
Arrows cannot reach it, I will not let them.

To do so is to die,
Please understand.

Shots of Phlegethon stopped reaching my tears,
Too many times have I gone mad from it's flames.

I would rather forget,
All that icy pain.

When I die from this curse of long-lost touch,
Send me to corrode on the banks of the Lethe.
Written by
Mike A Eyslee  18/M
(18/M)   
229
 
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