THE RIVER LETHE
I am riding this bark along
the river of forgetfulness; trying
not to sleep, yet failing at that.
Above me, a lethal form of sky
is hovering low; caves and flowing
water assuage the doubts, as I
duck and timber the flow.
My brain this time is purely the
loser. Attempting its own deceit,
so sure of the reality before it, it
pauses at nothing at all - but goes on,
and on, relegating a propensity for
reflection to only the water alone.
And even that reflection is but
the faint glimmer of moving illusion.
What is it I've carried this far,
and strapped to my back, no less?
What is it drags me through water like
leaden weight, sinking and falling? The
onus of this magnificence? Oh, surely
not that! The plaque-worn, granite-load
of memory carried, ever onward and more?
Perhaps. Singing like sirens, I hear a
feminine sound - voice, songstress, singer.
And, oh though, would it be, she were mine!
This foul nomenclature; I bury the
name 'neath the waters. Why try the climb
and the flow? I am sinking as I sing. Both
regard each other equally, these words -
past me strange landscapes pass.
I am entering Heaven,
or I am leaving a Hell.