Enshrouded in the fog of death, shackled by the chain of destiny, imprisoned upon the rocky shores of Styx, I await the Promethean eagle. With glistening talons, it swoops down, piercing my side to feed upon glowing uncertainty, the final essence of my life.
The faint sound of Charon’s oar lapping in the water, ripples across the river, yet the ferryman ignores me, rowing past my place on shore. For I am trapped in a snow globe of time. No matter how often it is swirled, the flakes settle upon the same fate, day, after day, after day.
Looking upon the darkened sky, stars of tomorrow glitter across my tongue, as bitter recollections. For one day soon, Hercules shall draw god’s arrow, splitting my shackles, liberating me from my fear of death. Coin in mouth, I await my crossing to the Fields of Asphodel.