In you no passion bleeds, a shell that's thin and withering. Did you misplace your flame in pursuit of a new hell to help you heal or burn the same? Dedication makes a martyr out of me while you're afraid to offer flakes of skin. Your fire dies, dependent on the embers I provide. Shield your blaze from beads of sweat. No servant. No servant of mine, turn your back and flee. Bending over backwards to be sure we watched you leave. You are not owed more than the shoulders you have burdened. Contentment breeds in our disintegration like bitter pills digested by the sick. I wish you luck and hope you've found your medicine (pray that it kills you quick). The chase has clouded your perception, beg to be buried in the sky. Dependent on the embers I provide, your fire dies. The same mud buries both of us alive and still you search for different shades of dirt.