The dead cow plow the unforgiven souls of yesterday
burning in the stowe of parashing yet forgiven clay.
You throw yourself on the threshould of your mind
and burn your notice on the back of what is kind.

At the myriad of nothingless you fold your life
over the river of Styx when you ask for the price
of Charons stolen boat whithout a thread of pride
- you see life swim further north but still let it slide.