The Ferryman Doth Come

On Sunday through the witching hours, the midnight mass bells tolled.

Yet pews were empty and windows shuttered, no genuflection at the doors.

The altar stood bare, no widowed veils, litany was not intoned,

hymns did not permeate the starless night, no vicar spoke from leather tomes.

And I alone in this lonely void, trepid among the graves cold stones,

wept against the apathy on the pillars whittled from brittle bone.

Amidst the silhouettes was I derided, the epitaphs disremembered me,

the iron gates within the winds, whistled sacrilegious melody,

and from within the softened soil came impious discourtesy.

The ferryman doth come, two pence upon my eyes,

one oar in Acheron, one oar in Cocytus.

The ferryman doth come, two pence upon my eyes,

the bells toll the price for hell’s toll, two pence for my demise.

-Ernesto Mora