A wee poem (sort of)

Ashes and Dirt

I look upon my roof and knock
My room so small, cushioned, yet locked
They hear not my fevered hands a rapping
Then I hear the sound, a tapping
Knock knock

I cry out, my lungs a burning, calling cry
No liquid from my eyes, tears be dry
My lips tremble, quaking laughter, why?
Knock knock the clods of falling sky

My room, this box in which I lie
The air so scarce, so hot, so dry
Now moribund my mind in darkness tries
My soul doest fly, and in my tomb at last I die.