caressing skin

What happens when we die?
The cold steel sears this tender flesh.
My pistol.
An automatic ticket into a world,
above, below, beyond, assuming it exists.
My salvation.
It's frigidness steals up a tear-stained cheek.
A reminder of what is to come.
My anticipation.
Sliding languidly up this painted face,
like bitter kisses caressing skin.
My religion.
Holding life and death in unwavering hands.
There are no more tears to shed, no more fears.
My demise.
An abrupt click shattering the silence,
calming the whispers in this mind.

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