Postmortem Letter

With calloused hands
you snuffed out the primordial spark,
you drove the nails into
the living wood of infancy
with the eyes of a father,
the heart of a sphinx,
will you let me find my cloud
in this blinding black sky?
All that's left of you
is the algebra of your life,
cryptic letters on a cold, dead stone,
will I ever cut the rope
that strangles my neck
or will I succumb
to the demon that whips my back
on this crooked path to hell?