An icy cold hand ,
Dragging me through river styx .
He is not one to speak .
But the shadows of me asked,
"Why did I choose to die? "
The echoes crawled through the dead
Never bothered to be answered
Kinda of a short poem
Describing maybe sometimes death is in fact a punishment and something that cannot be sympathised with
In direct contrast to my other poem
Called "to persophone "
