Styx
"Styx"
Eyes that run rivers
reflect Styx crossed.
The Journey commences
spilled from inside
the nowhere land,
risen from a metaphorical drowning -
poetic,
worldless boundaries
of a tablecloth moment,
where shining cutlery is set just so,
in the correct placement -
The Last Supper,
we sit across from each other,
grace is not uttered before the meal
there is nothing left between us -
poetic.
What’s left?
A life stolen -
I let you go.
What will be, will be.
Along the road,
another life, calls me,
Home.
What will be, will be.
I let you go.
Along the road,
Life calls you -
Home.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
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