Analysis of The I of My: A Memoir of Death

The I of My: A Memoir of Death

Upon lulling to sleep one stormy night
A horrible wailing echoes through the house,
Sending shivers, sailing, sweeping, up my legs,
Stirring, seeking, to awaken sleeping fright.
More or less, to caress, across my sweaty limbs,
The fear of what has been buried:
A he, by me, unfortunately, underneath the earth he swims.
At a glance, I take my chance, with hands clasped on the windowsill,
Tightly pressing, fear caressing, peering out against my will.
What I see belongs to me, but what I created I must kill.
Oh, he must hurt, beneath the dirt, but I buried him against my will.

Are we gods, or just creations, or reality bound hallucinations?
What is real, and what is fake?
Losing track of that was my mistake.
To believe, I could achieve, giving life to dead;
From the start, within my heart,
I knew these thoughts were fallacies within my head.
For I gave life gladly, although life was not mine to give,
And I took it sadly, for I knew it could not live.
And so, the he, by me, would not come to be,
Though other forces would observe what I did not foresee.
For although I know all the unseen things of this world are too lightly mistaken,
It is not by my power that he would reawaken.
Perhaps unseen powers of heaven permitted unseen powers of air
To conspire against me for the crime I did dare.
And none of the lot, would permit him to rot, beneath his burial ground,
For they clearly hated, what I created, and once more, I hear a moaning sound.
I hear a wail, so sharp, so shrill–
Now I know the killer will become the kill!
And who will save me?
For the he will engrave me.
And I must lament, that the one who gave him breath,
Will meet, by him, an untimely death.
Oh, woe is me!
How can this be?
Good fortune has left me unfortunately.
Silence is gone, no longer silently speaking,
Replaced by the sound of loud footsteps, the floorboards are creaking!
The door is thrust open, making a hole in the wall!
I, myself, am in terror at the sight of it all!
My image, my likeness, is finally here,
To take my life! the life that I hold so dear.

Upon lulling to sleep one stormy night
A horrible wailing reverberates beneath the dirt.
‘Tis not the wailing of the monster,
Of the abomination now nestled snuggly in my bed.
Rather it is the wailing of my departed soul, beyond the grave, resoundingly dead.