Knocking on Death's door.

Waltzing up to the door,
Black with a golden frame,
Surrounded by hot magma,
And souls of fear and shame.

Above the scorched archway,
Hover ragged shards of rocks,
And below the porch I'm standing,
Is naught but an endless box.

The cold wind slashes my arms,
Like knifes they deeply cut,
Yet the heat sickens my mind,
Making me queasy in the gut.

Raising my shivering arm,
Clutched into a fist,
The wind still strikes me hard,
Slitting my dainty wrist.

Blood, deep red like anger,
Flowing down my arm,
Causing me to cry in pain,
As the wind continues to harm.

The heat messing with my head,
Causing me to sweat,
Panting as hard as I could,
And I havn't touched the door yet.

Intensely, the heat increases,
And my breathing becomes abnormal,
Failing to catch my breath,
I know this greeting won't be formal.

Forcing my muscles to function,
My fist pounds against the door,
Suddenly the hurting ceased,
I thought: 'No pain, not anymore'.

Slowly the back door opened,
Creaking as it moved,
Claws scratching down a chalk-board,
All silence disapproved.

No light shone through the cracks,
Just darkness, all around,
Despite waiting in an endless hell,
The creaking was the only sound.

The door paused hastily,
Not enough to fit me through,
A figure stood with a cloak of back,
Hissing: "I've been waiting for you..."

Then the fear gripped my head,
I was paralysed, unable to move,
Now the master of death stood before me,
And there's nothing I could prove.

He looked me in the eyes,
My green locking with his red,
Then whispering to me softly:
"You don't deserve to be dead."

Then I was sent falling,
Down into endless space,
Screaming silently,
With fear upon my face.

Opening my eyes,
I'm on the hospital bed,
Thinking positively:
'I belong here instead'.