• She bears her colors, those vibrant colors of death. Cloaked not only in colors but in a leaden cloak of the most profound perfumes. Our eyes defying, deviant, deceiving, and over all deadly. She has but one friend, always draped in black hovering over her like an overly protective parent. Hands raised like a clock at its twelve o’clock hour, ready to come cutting down with a silent hiss cutting through those souls stupid enough to taste her bliss, oh but he is not so kind no he has a humor so deviantly dreadful denying death. There soon wishing for the pain of rancid regret to stop. Wanting to enter that blissful insanity we call death. Finally after a few moons have passed he is filled with pity he ends his revenge of his dear sweat laurel. So know now when you see her draped in purple, and smell her tantalizing perfume steer clear for her friend draped in black features colder than ice with his silver tool raised high. No longer are they ignorant of his name for now they know he is death.