Crossing

I sat down by the river Styx

enviously eyeing the floating gold on bloated body.

They need it less I figure,

prying coins from lips sewn shut.

The living bore Charon's heftiest toll;

double on merciful days if they wished to return.

Hollowed pits follow me into the depths

beyond Dante and past Perseus.

Little is more familiar than the inferno,

certainly not the beautiful wealth seated on the surface.

It is not the heart beckoning from beyond the veil,

nor avarice showing its hand when pockets jingle.

Every brush with death's reward is reason,

anything to keep me going.

Life infallibly gives ample reason to leave,

yet it so stubbornly clings.