Dinghy to Hell

The moon’s reflection echoes 
dark in the stillness
as a choir of mosquito wings 
hum a woeful dirge.
Three parts blood, two parts water
the river is as still as ink.
A cold wind puckers and blows
making the surface shiver
and a ripple rises 
like goose flesh.

Burlap hooded and black as the night
the ferryman poles this dinghy
down the Styx on capricious tides. 
I, his lone fare. 
As the wind blows 
he points a bony finger at the bow. 
I turn to see and stare. 
He grins
gleeful to show the eternal fires
awaiting my flesh for fuel
and drawing so so near. 
His advice: that I contemplate 
my life of sin,
and ponder the fate of those who never learn.
“Why?” 
I smile back with narrow eyes,
“My soul is anxious to burn.”