Poetry: Death of the Year

[laria_a]

They linger on the threshold;
Poised to flee, but wanting
To come closer, to reach out
And touch the flesh of the living
With the fingers of the dead.
You watch over them, Hekate.
You are a shepherd; they, your flock.
Hermes stands beside you, smiling.

One by one they come closer.
I arch, torn between life and sleep,
Wakefulness and gloomy death.
Their fingers brush against me,
Reminding me of my promises.
O threshold gods, liminal as you are:
Take me to the worlds above and below.
Let me dance and sing among you!

I would give up my youth for it.
Crumble to dust, ancient before I know it,
Like the fey-stolen of the times
That man has tried so hard to forget.
I line my body, still dripping with blood,
With soft fleece. I wait, aching,
Trembling. I will follow you to Dis,
Past the death of this year, to the birth of the next.