An acrid smell of gun-powered shooed....
Against my skin, thinned and due.

Metal blue cold steel...
Icy felt, my only feel.

Death coming closer to thy door...
Rapping the rapture and capturing poor.

The window sill ed chilly bones...
Regrets yet but, breathless, me moans.

Hal lower aches of calcium ed frowns...
Relates so tender and forlornly scorned.

These bony bones do squawk as creak....
Aged faster and brittle, that, they speak.

Along lost corridors of love lost days....
Give to thine, thy dusty and sun droned rays.

Sweep me swept all cleansed and bathed...
Firmly spent like a termite's, wooden toy, thus chewed up in-lathe.

No haste and no worry...
Only options, are to hurriedly, scurry.

The cross left for a tomb-ed sense...
Only leave behind, ashen-ed contents.

No more soul in a wasted host...
Of all thy loved ones, we miss the most.

No more pain and no more sorrow...
Not any hours or days of tomorrow.

Left to weep for mine pa lo red, tint...
No more wept, no more hint.

Michael Gale

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-most-gun-lit-awakening/