I Felt A Scheming When I Died

I felt a scheming when I died.
I’d felt them scheming,
conspiring,
grasping for the moment of my fall.
Like the wretched dissemblers they were,
they called me “Your Grace.”
As if. The beggars wanted Grace, my Grace.
Like an indulging parent, I gifted them something else.
To please the proper and good, I had to do so, despite the devilry of
my recipients.
Recipients that spawn as from the cold winter that comes with salted
loss, dominating thought and freezing cerebrum.
It fills one’s mind with the most testing that winter has to offer.
So, I’d scavenged for the most appropriate bequeathals (if only for a
short while),
but had found none worth the delegation,
except for myself,
and the royalties left in my possession.
No, not dollars or trinkets, but myself.
Perhaps it is an uncommon thought for one close to death, yet,
the child in me wonders if I’ll have room to move.
A king’s domain should be spacious;
the wider the domain, the longer the rest.
But only sometimes, as in the cases of Graceful, limber people.
If I have my way,
My own casket will be unrestricted in breadth,
greater than the stars in my will.
A few may have forgotten about my will, if not me entirely.
Certainly the dissemblers haven’t.
Even at the finish,
it’s galling to betray myself and

affirm their success.
Now, an even higher Grace calls;
the casket shuts.
Yet – the air –
It’s stifled by a breadth.
Shame,
I notice,
but falter in belief.
I did not get my way.
I could not keep my Grace.
I felt a scheming when I died.