To dream so wearily, exposed to grand themes and ideas so bold they could never carry weight, over to the other side, the boat ride ebbs across the river Styx, boatman paid in little bits.
Menacing cowl and call, the boatman looks eerily into the heading storm, lightning cracks at the bow, the judgement call is made and the passenger has a poor grade.
Woe to the people of the shore watching with bated breathe as the boat man paddles into that storm of vicious intent, stop the boat from crossing and rend it to oblivion.
Charon only chuckles within himself knowing what there is to know. He is merely a servant of the boat, the river and the crossing of it within eternity's reach. No such foul games may be played within this hallowed grave.
The crossings are to and fro and never a restful pace, back and forth ferrying the damned, undead be this boat man, eternal shroud covering his face. A mystery and yet a simple fact, he is what he is and that is that.
Embrace the dark that shrouds the mind, it be only the leftovers from distant time. Let it burden you not, it merely attempts to enrapture and enslave. It holds no sway just as the boat man is merely a servant to the crossing, only fulfilling created prophecy to the letter.
The storms brew and scheme, the lightning flickers and yet within this knowing all is well, it is just duality beckoning this played out theme.
Embrace the night and let it be, it is only a distant memory.
