On the banks of the river she waited,
so silently, smiling, nay smirking, at all that she could.
The Stygian stood, and took what he would,
as she then rose up above the dark wood.

Then her misery would have been sated,
by amnesty, if but a second more had she withstood.
A moment it took, to see bad from good:
Unholy sacrifice she thought she should.

Smirk on her face faded as death did nap.
Frantically looked around, courage did sap—
No gold obol left, a ghoul on her lap.

In hope or despair, must follow the map.
Cold and uncaring does the sweet truth tap.
Beware, your demons; they dwell in the gap.