Your death will not be beautiful

In search of a scathing critique. I'm not fond of this one, but I'm trying to write more sonnets.

Public Burden / Stone Ocean

There's moths inside your closet, I'm afraid;

And cobwebs in the cupboard's place for plates-

The finer ones of which you've tamped to crates,

And christened them "For Charity", and laid

The heirloom silver with them in the shade

With some air of finality or fates.

I know the conversation that awaits:

if I would wet the ground where you decayed,

But I won't come. I'd rather that you left

Behind for me a sentimental song-

"There's fitter things to weep about," I say,

"What life to live if not one suffered long?

I cannot let you see me off bereft."

And I'll not shed a tear for you the day.