A Prayer to the Gods

a glimmer of hope

like Icharus' shining wings in the sun

flying out and up

before the plunge.

O my fragile soul!

Shards of foil in the sun

shaken

then jolted

then tapped casually

only every now and then,

and now still.

Hope tired like the Lethe

one million years of lonely travelers,

weary travelers,

and confused.

Where am I? Surely...no.

I am NOT getting on that boat, wha-choo think I am, CRAZY?

Where is my wife?

Where is Abelard?

And ne'er a bright-eyed Hercules.

Only Psyches,Psyches,Psyches,

bemoaning their serpent loves.

Is there always fear behind the disbelief

at finding themselves at your shores?

Or only sorrow.

Row on, row on.

Boatman, row on.

Persephone! every springtime

Persephone, every fall...

and they forget and forget and forget.

O River, what have you seen?

You must know,

you have seen their eyes,

the vacuous stare...

Sisyphus rolling his stone up everyday: do the shards still sparkle for him?

Or is eternal amnesia

the one and only

way to survive in this place,

so dark and wet and empty.

Tell me, father,

Ferryman,

when you lay your oars below

and look to the open door

and see the Fields,

golden barley folding and flying,

do you remember the dreams you too once had?

Do you have a cup?

Do you drink the Lethe?

And is forgetfulness,

this long, long river,

the only way to rock a soul after seeing across the fence,

the only way to pretend

an Elysian fields for those of us never worthy to find ourselves there?

Give me a cup.

I'll guzzle it like Joel and Clementine,

so that tomorrow I can dye my hair blue to fit my insides

though tomorrow I won't know why my insides are blue.