My talent's eulogy

I sink beneath the sheets
and they are pressed
and itching skim.
I am a slab-
a motionless hunk of meat
festering beneath a mortuary shroud.
Why should I move-
why jerk the earthly garment out?
For I am mindless-
my gifts rotted
withered
with the bold fruits of my destruction.
In peace there is
death.
A death of white-flash fire
of teasing games-
of self.
This bed is a corpse-bench
and my flesh lies upon it-
mind cleaved surely,
somehow vaporised
in the frozen air.
With thought severed
I am steak
sear me to ash
for my use is departed.