To whole the nothing

In the womb, I am writ of scarlet
My ivory is transparently written in the blood where I simmer, waiting for my birth to ensign this porcelain veil
 
As a child, I wear the mask of dishevel
I have not yet mastered design with a chiselled quill
I have yet to plaster the nigh with unwholesome will
I have yet to curtail the bloom of unfettered delight
I have yet to prevail over the moon in the night
 
In my youth, I wear the mask of rebellion
I hamper wit with my fist  
I sample tryst with my lips
I measure fate as a bone
I pleasure my wait upon a throne
 
In my prime, I wear a mask of endeavour
I fix the lines as a sketch
I tangle spines with the wretch
I commit to grit as a seed  
I urge its growth under my knees  
To splay the cards without an ace
To discard the words that devils lace
 
In expiration, my face will be unlined
Smoothed by the transference of need to wait  
I soothe the tongue of all its splinters
Seek tranquility over the clamorous  
Seek futility over the amorous
 
I shimmer in the mask of atonement  
and add flair to the eyes
To feather the cheeks with resilience  
To guild consequence with strength
Embellish the furrow with swank
 
To mother the stillness of my pen  
To whole the nothing
and wear the coronet of a Queen  
in the presence of none