The Angel of Death does not knock. She arrives with the hush of falling ash, barefoot on the threshold of your last breath.
Her wings are black, but the color of forgetting—soft dark, like dust on old piano keys.
She does not weep, nor smile; her face is a mirror, and you see yourself clearly for the first time.
In one hand, she holds silence; in the other, release.
She does not take, she frees.
And as she guides you through the dim hallway of the world’s edge, even the stars seem to dim their voices,
out of reverence, out of awe.

Artwork done in 2008
Poser Pro render
Michael 4
skulls michael 4
Photoshop