Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nigdaw Jul 14
No fiery fate awaits my ****** soul
In Dante’s infernal inferno, on Level Five
I will swim beneath the wrathful
To permanently drown, with bulging eyes
Gasping for a breath I can never take
The River Styx, the embodiment of my sorrow
Liquified unhappiness, stagnant sadness
My sin? To live my life with a glass half empty
Having found no joy in man, nor God, nor the world
Which has already left me feeling punished.
I wonder if I’ll get a break down there,
Or will I still have to work my ******* lunch hour!
mark john junor Nov 2018
she gathers them up
holding them gently in her arms
there are more every day
like harvesting flowers
pick them when they are in full bloom
she walks barefoot in the fields
in a powder blue dress
big floppy hat to keep off the sun
she gathers them up
and brings them to the boatman at the river
he gives her one of the four coins he collects
for each one he ferries across
to the gates...
the gates....
one bright with golden promise of joy
the other dark and cold...
she hates the sight of the gates....
she wants her flowers to stay the way they are forever
tranquil as life in the country
serene as a sleeping smile...
she walks the battlefield that night
gathering up the fallen soldiers
she is death
come to harvest the late bloom
come to gather the souls for the ferryman
across to the gates of forevermore...
stopdoopy Nov 2018
1 2 3
Seeds from fruit trees

I've missed you
My cherished one

You will be
With us again

Is the earth
Beneath soft snow

Way down here
The embers glow

Are we, beloved
Feelings freely flowing

Crashing into rocks
Passionate and fierce

4 5 6
Cross the river Styx
. . . . . .
Brandon Conway Aug 2018
How many hearts will cause a man to fume
How many heats must be enraged with fire
How many hearts will a hungry soul consume
How many hearts actually follow their life's desire

How many hearts are frozen without a beat
How many hearts are left buried in the cold
How many hearts except total utter defeat
How many hearts never take off the blindfold

These questions we may never know
until we are the lost wandering souls
in the Styx's black meadow
while loved ones are left to condole
Lakin May 2018
congestion of a lung-
the left one that he can live
sans the pareidolia, what is
this organic machine?
maybe a
fool weakened by
failure of finding the
force in front of him.
having waited this millenium
after Archimedes,
subtraction has
become the reaper
of the living man: one who
doesn’t need his eyes to
find his feet wet from Styx.
one of my favorites. Proud of this one...
Jenn Coke Oct 2016
The river flows one way;
Once you're across the Styx,
You cannot turn around.

Up ahead, death awaits.
Behind, life aggrieves.
Yet, all but one choice exists.

Despite the past, move forward,
However dark the path is.
Leave what was to what will be.
Lark Train Jun 2016
Alive in this place
Of the dead and soon-to-be.
Crossing River Styx.
This haze about me is permeating, it dances in and out of the ebbing waves. Not completely black, though the smokey wisps and shades of black lend the water enough to be so.
Boats rest docked, ever on the schedule of the tides, marked by the men waded out to them. Foot soldiers in shimmering, soft grey suits the color of dove, up to their knees soaked. There is a hooded figure on the dock, not a woman nor a man. They carry a long rowing oar like a staff and stand always upright, vigilant. Without bones to weary or skin to age, only a porcelain mask to face when the time comes.
It isn’t expensive to take the ferry here, not terribly, in any case.
Unlike so many fishing wharfs I’ve seen before, there is no unpleasant odor. It smells of wet wood and lilies, which is curious. There are flowers about, dying roses are continually pushed up to the beach, but those I cannot smell. The lilies I cannot see.
In the water there are small paper boats with a candle each, burning easy in the windless air. The men in the water dodge the wayward boats that have drifted too far, but none of them seem to fear catching fire.
My feet are bare on the hard packed clay beach, I could easily walk in among them, and I wonder if I should go out to help.
Through the distance and dark I can see they carry a heavy box upon their shoulders, it dips dangerously to one side as one man slips.
The hooded figure does not turn as they slip their burden into a waiting boat.

I want to go with it, to see what’s waiting beyond.
Just as if my thoughts are read, I hear a small voice beside me and startle.
They must not see me here, or I will surely be in danger. Only the hooded figure may know me, should I choose to pay.

“You cannot go,” speaks the voice. It is a young girl, russet hair pulled up in a ponytail, though much of it is soaked and sticking. There is a **** upon the side of her head, but that is to be expected.

My mouth twists at the corner in a down turn, my first instinct to rebuke her. My but I am curious, however. “Why don’t you?” I counter, not turning. Never turning.
You must not face those you meet at the docks, nor at crossroads.

She nods appropriately, also staring out at the men as they work the ropes securing the boat to the dock.

“I cannot wake, neither can I depart. I am waiting in the interim.” She broached, a little wistfully. Then with a further turn towards conversation, asks, “what do you suppose they are? Do you suppose they were once-”

“No,” I interject. “No I don’t suppose.” And she smartly shuts her mouth.

If I face her, I’ll know. I’ll look into her eyes and see the water rising and hear her screams and feel the burn of hospital lights. I cannot allow her to see me.

“You cannot go, you cannot wake. You cannot stay.” I wondered aloud. “Have you not the cost to pay?” At this, she almost turns. I slide my gaze further away before I hear her again.

“You are old, you’ve forgotten the true weight of the price.”

The boat is freed and its guide alights it soundlessly. The men turn back towards us to fetch their next charge as I unknowingly hold my breath.
This time the box is much smaller, light enough for one of them to hold in his arms. The other three form a procession up to another waiting boat.

I’ve been too caught up in watching to notice the terror on the girl’s face. There is not much assurance in this place, but here we are.
She doesn’t make any notion that she can hear me as I voice myself, albeit shallowly.

“It isn’t yours.” But it might be, for all I know. For when I finally turn my head at the silence,

She is gone.
Alisandra Gray Dec 2014
Empty angels dance
upon the thunderhead,
skip amongst the ******,
laugh amongst the dead,
twirl along the river Styx
to abandon those they've led.
(c) Alisandra Gray, 2014.
Next page