Rusting

Churning deep in my gut,
A trembling,
Piercing, pain,
A rut,
Where my soul rusts,
Bathed in a wood fire's glow,
An old cabin,
Cloaked in snow,
The pain sweeps across
my cold old bones,
The trembling returns,
Slinking closer,
Closer,
To the red-gold blaze,
Old brown eyes narrow,
Now seeing through the haze,
Death pulls a chair beside me,
An old friend
From a time forgot,
Now returned at the end,
He warms long, pale fingers,
In twisting orange flames,
Before pulling out a scroll,
And whispering my name,
"I have a better place for your soul,"
He says, ticking a box,
Scribbling a word or two,
This old, frail form -
"It just won't do."