Acheron

Forked obol in mouth

From tainted blood

That became thick when dried

As a sullied river with mud.

Closed eyes.

Black.

I fumble for you to cross Acheron

In a small soul.

Charon accepts my

Chipped coin with a wry smile

Of crooked cracked.

Asleep.

Your leading cries grow

then fade.

When you feel

I’ve turned away.

I’m desperate-

Falling to find you

I claw the dirt.

There must be some trace:

Scent, print, tears.

There. It cuts me.

I stumble across

A sharp realization of your fears.

I have to find you.

Cerberus, you must believe me,

I didn’t look back

At a yawning, dying plight,

Only forward to her leading light.