Crossing the River

By J. Lynne Moore

Slow is the soul,
In want of sleep,
Reckless dreams,
From rest, do keep.

There is no time,
Left on the clock.
Hark do you hear,
The crow of the cock.

Words are twisted,
They make no sense…
Tongue is tied to the,
Barbed wire fence.

Hades awaits,
The wayward soul;
Do you have a sixpence,
To pay the toll?

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