Answer:
I cannot be other than what I am, until the man who made me dies. Power and glory will fall to me, only when he last closes his eyes.
I have memories, but none of my own. Whatever's on my inside is what is shown. If I'm ever different, it's because you changed me. I feel like a decoration, here for you to arrange me. What am I?
I can be written, I can be spoken, I can be exposed, I can be broken. What am I?
Searing 'cross the pitch-black skies I scream in celebration Yet moments later my outburst through I am naught but imagination.
I must be broken before you can use me.
It flows out of the soil, It burns you if it boils, And holds us in its coils, More valuable than gold, As black as it is old.