Funeral Wreathes, Pushed by the River

I am the gate to Tartarus' Hell a river of fear riding Charon sails 

sleep on the Lethe, passing the lake of the dreaming 

Washing red currant, scented souls plea. 

With cries of their mourning, in this absence of light, 

Bringer of dawn, bearer of orbs of the nite. 

Placed stele and stones, rest funeral flowers, 

Lain in repose, celebrate the cadaver. 

Hair tied as ribbons, floating for remembrance 

The swashing of rafts, sinking memories of semblance. 

Rosemary, lekythoi, and gifts of old incense 

Lay to the bottom where wreath sprays rescinded. 

Ghosts of Hekate drawn out by Athamé 

Dipped in the chalice, three moons shown on the dog-head. 

Born of the stars where dear Astra hath blessed them 

The crossroads I called, for Nihilism thine mistress. 

Brought by the waters gushing with spirits 

Adore thy own goddess, for the magic she presents us 

Chthonically chosen, for death's house: a witness.

The rowing and rowing to where all rivers give in.