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The angel of death is not the enemy. He is not to be feared, even though he is garbed in black leather and his wings are blacker than his soul. No, not to be feared. For even though he is dark, even though his eyes see beyond the skies, he loves you. He is powerful enough to ride the edges of thunderclouds, pulling the lightning along behind him by one finger. The four winds rush through his feathers, bearing him up, all-seeing. And he sees you. Every secret cached in the cellar, every withered regret hidden in the walls, every buried word in your heart, never uttered. When he comes, when you feel his breath on your cheek…the angel embraces you, caressing you like a mother. He runs a tender finger down your face, looking at you with a gentle smile. Do you think you're the only one? Every single one quietly shakes with fear, has darknesses that no one else knows. In truth, these are minuscule and not worth the shame. He takes your sweet face in his hands, stares knowingly into your eyes, and kisses you, long and lovingly. As he pulls away, he plucks your soul from you carefully, placing it safely aside for the long journey ahead. He lays your lifeless body, and your secrets, down...reverently. Taking you within him now, you are, mercifully, no longer alone. Now you, too, will ride with thunder, stringing lightning along.