The Fields of Asphodel
cloaked and faceless figures drift around you
aimlessly
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.