A Pome a Day for a Year

Here he comes, the boatman, paddling,
pulling through the ooze,
wooden pole downwards pointed
dragging his vessel, his bones,
to the pier of passing.

Here he stands, the boatman, looming,
ominously silent against the stars,
cowled face hidden, his eyes
two points of light,
muted in glinted apathy.

Here he beckons, the boatman, calling,
whispers thunder out your name,
your ears ring in the quiet
as sound forms in your skull,
overpowering and seductive.

Here he continues, the boatman, sailing,
his vessel holding you safely,
river of souls beneath you
warped and winding,
while the oar effortlessly passes through.