Boxes and Crates

I have felt the rain I have bared witness to such horrendous pain I have died a few times over I have hidden inside a smile The fresh scent of morning dew A sea faring fog, coming for a landing As I travel back to childhood days Where meadows and the sea were paradise Now in the dark of night In the dank basement of my life I have become the carpenter With hammer and saw, I build a crate Then I craft a box of lead to lay inside Then still, I mold a box of silver To lay inside the lead box Upon which I make one more box still Crafted of pure gold Artfully engraving my life on the sides I have toiled for years Creating these fine boxes and wooden crate Now comes the most difficult task of all Scalpel in hand, I cut out my beating heart I lay it softly in the golden box I seal each box one inside the other, until I seal the wooden crate The box of my heart has turned crimson red My blood the final artwork on my finely crafted piece With my last breath I fall upon the crate, quite fully dead My heart now protected, from all of romances arrows Poison arrows fall and black roses cry