Hold closed the eyes
Feel the wet crease
Feel the new warmth
Feel all too much
Yet nothing remarkable
Not worth reliving
Deserve nothing
But accept the gift
Clutching back
Shiver and yearn
Remember, remember
And wipe clean
Fly over grass
Or step the path
Gently unashamed
A phoenix undeserving
The feathers are damp
The bones are hollow
Hopefully you're not expressing worry by asking. I try not to explain my stuff too much, but I view this as a fairly positive poem, despite the title.
It's interesting seeing where what I was thinking while I wrote a line matches up with what you said and where it diverges, since neither interpretation is wrong. Poems, for me, have become a place for emotion to live, and there's no such thing as a wrong emotion. I was feeling "a lot" when I first wrote this, and I can still feel it now. Life is a trip.