Analysis of Can The Weary Word Survive?

Here the weary word comes to die,
in my lap, on the sly, whisper gasp.
With twisted leg n' arm, letters cry,
while I hammer a tongue and hasp.

This hinged box I keep to entomb,
the lock and key to exhume trade.
The corpses forlorn, in bored ruin,
a funeral march in endless parade.

This, a would be poet's confession,
I tire of flowery prose, double dose.
Of viral rhyme I'll take a secession,
n' prolific wane, curtails future posts.

Muse is on crucifix of timely demise,
has nothing more to say or expound.
Deader thus, coming as no surprise,
in future, I shall no longer be found!