Sonnet for the Deceased

Have thee known the cwealm in thine self ? 
That embraces thou from the creation.
How many times have thee died in thine self? 
It knows thee as a wretch infant in plantation.
To be with it, thine lips shall not pout nor move.
Yawn the virtue along with two graves,
Identical to a botfly mixed with desire and fool.
A dead wretch which the devil hates, or no God bless,
Will both illuminate and darken thine path.
Be aware thou! Carcass of thine heart’s blood,
May vitalise thee against to the vicious circle of death;
Swáþéah, thou may be prone to feel thine vorpal mud.
    Comply the umpteen desirous suicidality of thine deofol body.
    Coup de grace’ll make thou greater than the divine or thee.