Yearning A Closer Burning, Beside Death's Own Door. Poem by Michael Gale

I awaken from rocking bed...
I awaken to a sledge-hammered head.
Iron's in fires too many...
Burn't too long, to a well, remembered song.
I hunger, to be moved, to death's close door...
I hunger, to live, no more.
If extinguished, this life's flame of strife...
Continues not, without continued life.
That burning tree of life, t'would ashen'd to me...
A Pheonix, incarnate-T'would be death to me.
I long for that, most, yearned break, of tide...
Better, to have lived less, than to have, a longer, soul, died.
A tearful beliefe, in spirit, shan't be cried...
Doomed to be forever, deafened-belied.
I break, with life's tide, blindly intoned...
Wished by sole, only well lonely drone'd.
Cast my line, to life's, lone river...
Cast me, finally, to my most high-life, griefened, misgiver.