Moksha

It seemed centuries,
the cleansing ferry
‘cross death's lake.
Scull on; silent,
and a pale rider.
Each lost soul
spread to the horizon
in an eerie migration,
bewailed in the mist.
‘till lone, I found
the dark closing in,
night swallowing night;
when low,
the sum of promethean pain
gave rise my soul
and bore on raven wings –
I was born again.