Short is the trip to the land with no borders

The fates are quick, and obey no orders

Soldier sinner and saint all receive no quarter

Short is the trip to the land with no borders

Nothing that is does end, but how real

Is consciousness?

Attention paid to the little deaths

Thanatonaut

On the sick bed or a foe’s sword

It’s the same thread the same scissors

The psychopomps have the last word

Spun to length and then cut the cord

Persephone awaits at the ends

Of consciousness

To sleep perchance to meet his brother

Thanatonaut

No ferryman awaits

By his father

He is replaced