The Fields of Asphodel

cloaked and faceless figures drift around you


formlessly, shapelessly

drinking from the river lethe

you are no one, not anymore


glancing down,

glossing over grey grasses

flattened under foot,

softly swirling dust devils

tickling with soot


you do not hunger

you do not thirst

you shuffle, without suffering

no atonement

no respite


your mind a haze

you’re caught in a daze

almost, in the distance

you can see… something


too hard to focus

you’ve lost your locus

crossing beneath vaguely outlined equidistant aqueducts

already forgot, always forgetting


you did not good

you did not evil

and now the consequence


you’ve arrived at the boundary

of the fields of asphodel


Biographical Note: Sam Dotson is a fourth year undergraduate Anthropology student at the University of Cincinnati. He loves to write and has been developing his craft for several years now. Whenever he’s not writing, he’s cooking, hiking, or building things.