• poetry
• Greek history
• Philosophy

From where I waited,

the River Styx looked like an ocean.

It stretched beyond the sandy banks where I stood,

weaving its way through rooms and hallways.

The water floated in air, like spirits do.

I knew it to be cold to the touch.

In that sea of white coats, I saw a pallium:

a black cloak draped over the ferryman.

Charon—his eyes warm and smile frail—

come to bring me home to a place of rest!

Alas, his boat drifted onward;

these timeworn eyes could not follow him for long.

But tomorrow, I will wait on these banks again—

till this coin is no longer in hand,

till these feet are no longer on sand.