Photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash
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
About the Creator
Hyde Wunderli
Enthusiast of gothic romanticism and strong themes.
Here for the dopamine, the passion, and the challenge to push my comfort zone.


Comments (3)
Great
WOW! Where have you been hiding with all this talent? I am glad you made top story with your very intense poem or I would not have run across you! Keep it up please!
Not bad, sir. Not bad at all!