Passport... to paradise&;#063;

you bastard.
you think I don't think about suicide.
about the tendencies,
the possibilities,
the endless possibilities.
play with fire and emotions get burned,
but I've only just started to singe you.
the flame roars.
it burns darker,
deeper,
the flesh stretches as it touches the surface.
deeper,
push it further,
pain.
pain.
the pain you should have felt before,
the pain I feel.
it never subsides,
but it never passed the surface before.
its never gone that deep,
draw back,
its bleeding,
draw back.
the blood spurts,
splutters as it encounters the furnace,
the lava spewing.
red hot,
pain,
anger.
death.
if it goes any further death will arise,
fear will depart,
death will come.
quick,
flowing freely,
the trickle,
blue versus red on the glowing blanket of yellow,
gold.
priceless.
the skin peels,
pierced,
blackened by soot,
bleeding dry,
bacteria spilling,
forming clusters,
sores,
ulcers.
metamorphosis from harmlessness to death,
takes just one match.
strike a light to strike a deal with death.
the afterlife will torture the soul,
the furnace will destroy the orifice,
but the pleasure is for the one and all.
on earth.
in life.
take it,
feed on it,
share it.
never forget the roots you are tied to,
and to which you may never return.
even dead and buried you return nothing.
more must die for you to rest.
a selfish desire to sleep sweetly encased,
in the bounty of the land.
silence follows a pause.
life follows.
you bastard.
life follows.