Ode to the Casket

Who then whittles away at my casket?

That with each affair my life’s surrender,

intricate impressions render.

Who then constructs the art of my fate?

Evoked by both torment and ecstasy,

morphed to conjure all that encompasses me.

It is not the rose upon the wood,

nor the thorn carved in vastitude,

that moves me beyond my undaunting feud.

It is the empty spaces,

not yet defined,

and the pending traces,

I long to leave behind.

So I ask again for an answer;

who then is liable for the depiction of that which preserves my legacy?

You need not look far,

for the answer is in a shallow grave where there’s only room for…me