The Coffin-Maker is calling my name, again He whispers, slowly, from corners His soft mouth caressing the single syllable, murmurs Falling like mist on water I try to ignore him, feeling his gaze (his coquette winks a memory of a dream) The Coffin-Maker is calling my name, again! A laughing slur, basking in the steel glow of his own persuasiveness He knows I hear him, and he can Feel my anger, glinting Spark of hatred, his Pretentious calm eyes roving, waiting The Coffin-Maker is calling my name, softly It's been five weeks now, and I have yet to answer once.