Today what is – morrow isn't,
River Styx from here – not distant,
What one touches, what one feels,
To the ruthless reaper kneels.
The chains with which you bind,
The diminishing and your mind,
Forge with an iron soft,
So they could freely between them waft.
Styx
Fourth poem in my collection Decalyric: Fox.
3 years ago
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