The Ferry man

In the Dark there's a beckoning Candle

Carry my beloved child over
In mists on the malignant moor
Quietly frozen cold dark and damp.
This silence permeates the countryside
breath freezes on the tongue
and the ferryman scrapes his wooden oars

Against the barrel of a boat
on the river, the murky river
scattered bones and pale shadows
of departed souls and lost love
and that ferryman scrapes his wooden oars

Over that cold misted river, where debris is scattered
of soldiers lost long ago in a battle great,
little children born too soon in Victorian arms.
Then tumble old men and women at the ends of time
and the ferryman scrapes his wooden oars

into the mouth of hell itself , haunted and burning bright
Out there in the dark, there's a beckoning candle
waxen limbs and fetid flesh burn vivid
the calling card of this world ended
and the ferryman scrapes his wooden oars

sail away, from this world to the next
perhaps he'll pass over in the storm
To overlook the tallow carcasses
Then safe to haven shores in the arms of angels
But no you pass by and only then to scream
as the ferryman scrapes his oars no more