By Christopher Swinson
On the seventh moan comes the
howl of everything we have forgot.
Let us sit now upon this throne,
our lies nestling by the river Styx.
Read from the book of our father, or
drown upon what you call your son.
Maybe I’m wrong, I know not the truth,
and perhaps I am like the liar too.
You may yet be saved from this casual justice.
I however am lost in sin.
Bitter though this may make me,
every story must have its end.
So now I say this to you
and I hope you heed my word well.
Voracious though I may be,
even you may be saved from the
domain in which you dwell.