Crossing The Styx. Poem by Ripper Jones

When the jungle is silent it's always deafening,
Bottom heavy with menace.
An unseen, unbeing force.
And people who live in the sheath of night,
Scream their terrors of the snakes that bite.

Is it too much imagination for want of comfort?
The yet undead fear the dancing light,
Through the window of Eve's fundamental attributes.
That deadens the sight Adam's sight
And enlivens a people ripe for conquest,
Through the unspoken piranha's bite,
What difference to the worms that yet live on
In the underworld waiting for us,
What future creatures will want our oil?

Our skeletons, models of perfection,
On the catwalk's hanging flesh
That mortality destroys in a puff of breath,
To abide in the circles of Dante's hell,
With the killers and daydreaming forgers.

The Lilliputian egoists with their damning surprises,
And the constant din of cold-blooded screams,
Pitched like tents on a lake,
Forever to sink in brown-flecked mires,
Is this your fate as the Catholics believe,
As under the water of existence you swim,
Getting nowhere and drowning each day,
And every second of torment,
That swings on hooks far away,
In the sky that once knew,
Blue and misty, sometimes dark.
Remember that Hitchens and Camus also had to die.