I am falling upon oblivion.

As smooth as ice and as cold.

But hard, a diamond’s cut.

Cold.

The shivers that cross my bones

are from blood-curdling shrieks.

Moans of anguish and pleas of release.

Frozen.

The entirety is dead.

Demons grin.

The Stygian Defeat.

Charon’s phthistic hands grip

the rotted, putrid oars tight.

His decomposed leer is nauseating.

Stifling.

No waves disturb Styx as we row.

We glide on ease and sleep.

And yet, the unease abound thickens.

Suffocating.

I can only scream out.

I can only rage and curse

the Stygian Defeat.

To Hades, to Cerberus, to Tataurus

we ride the placid stream.

The sickly scent of fear is oozing.

Discontenting.

A stiffness in my body urges

one’s self to fall in and drown.

Although I can’t drown.

Hopeless.

It’s a bleak, grim outlook.

I wave goodbye to the light as I sail into

the Stygian Defeat.