text: Here we see the forever-inconsolable. The entity of eternity--our own demise and rebirth--the Reaper. This creature of time and sand takes the form relatable to his victims, but may never truly live amongst them. There are many beings and creatures that may stand by his side for a moment of companionship; but alas, he must live on as he helps those to the next life while despising the very essence of his being. A simple chair of dried wood and stone serves as his throne; never bothered with the shimmering spectacles of precious stones or reflective metals of value. He will sit there--upon his natural seat--and watch the universe unfold before him. As the Original Power constructs planet after planet, being after being, so our somber friend must witness and clean up after all is said and done. Thin skin with veins visible beneath, a cloak of tattered black cloths hangs around his thin, yet fit form, and wings reach out to either side--twelve wings all together; each as black as the tattered cloths; yet, the majority of feathers have long since molted away and left the bones to flutter against the everlasting sky--bare. Our friendly foe of deliverance and mortality sits back in his poor man’s throne to label us--to post our dates above our heads; however, he himself will not stand. From afar--perhaps, he sees a woman walking from her home to the vehicle that would take her to work, but today her number has reached its end--her soul has grown weary of the puppet it has been stranded in for so long. This woman is like so many of the others. His eyes need not flicker between her face, the numbers, nor her surroundings. He simply watches it as a whole--the eyes more for our benefit than his--for he knows it all, sees it all, and shall never forget any of it. A hand reaches out from his throne. This throne that exists outside of time--for time does not exist to such a creature. This throne in space, in a desert, in snowy wastelands; wherever you see this throne is meant only for your eyes. That hand outside of time calls forth the embodiment of this soulless being. He beckons it forth into our world--a piece of himself so that he may not be bothered with each soul that need passage beyond. The hatred he receives, the pain he must endure, and the reticule that befalls him is more than he wishes to bear. From those fingertips spawns a blackened smog. Twisting, fusing, and morphing together brings forth a creature of our departing moments--a simple raven that now stands upon his stiff fingers. “Forgive me, but I leave this to you.” The Raven turns to the vision of this woman. To the child beyond her, to the man beyond that, to the sleeping couple in the burning house, to the murdered boy in the alley behind your local shopping mall, to the soldier whose homeland has become nothing more than a battlefield and cemetery, to the sailor and his daughter who fish upon the ocean without knowledge of the coming storm, and to the mother who excitedly strains herself for the gift of new life--only to lose her own. “Where?” The Raven bounces on his hand, but the eyes keep fixated on the Reaper’s. “I will guide you, child.” The hand with no resting creature lifts to point onward to our world. “They will not notice you--they will only see sadness upon the fate that beckons the female.” A cocked head brings the Raven to witness her last moments. A hand failing to open the locked door of her vehicle--the leg that loses its footing--even the heart that slows within her chest. “Why?” Another question from the beak of this Raven. “I have birthed many like you.” The Reaper does not look to the bird--the fictitious eyes pinned upon the face of our story’s victim. “Each flies fast to the side of those who need me.” A voice of reason and calculation mixed within an entity of eternity. “I wish to not fight the flow of their kind--to them I send thee.” “Scared?” The Raven turns a cold eye to the Reaper upon his cold throne. The Reaper does not answer. He lifts the perch of the new born Raven higher--closer to our existence. “Go forth, bird.” He shakes the hand back and forth, but the Raven grips onto the pointer of the eldest beside the Creator. “Scared!” The Raven pokes at the emptied heart of the owner of the mighty scythe. “Scared!” Squawking a unpleasant tune with each jabbing remark meant to stir the emotions of the afterlife’s messenger and ruler. “Scared!” “Beast!” The Reaper stands at the end of his throne’s reach--standing within the world of that desert or snowy field--the sight you witness that is your own. “I have seen race after race--species after species move back and forth through the thick membranes of each dimension and universe.” The Reaper fans the stripped wings behind him in an act to reveal the dominance he so clearly possesses, “I will not stand to suffer any longer--you may suffer for only this time! Now go!” The hand of the Reaper reaches out where he points to the world of mankind. The Raven stares beyond the realm of his Creator--but does not fly or hop, no. Another feather falls from the almost empty wings of the timeless watcher; standing at the ready for the portion of himself to go out and reap those who have called upon his name. “No.” A Raven’s voice heckles the curator of all realms--mocks the hand that molded him. “Scared!” It holds onto our final companion’s hand with a firm grasp; allowing no unwanted release from its perch. “Your job!” The Raven turns its face to gawk at the ruling master of all Underworlds-- no worry or regret; but the Reaper is baffled. A simple Raven stands against his will--the will of he who created it. “I have given you purpose,” the Reaper narrows the false eyes--wings of bone and tattered cloths of black lift and sway at the rush of power. “Do as I say, Raven.” Verbally besetting the Raven with thundering voice--harsh spite tearing through his throat--again, a physical feature made entirely for our benefit. “I give purpose.” Raven’s words reach a deep anger within the Reaper. Possibly it is hatred--perhaps it is regretting the creation of his simpleminded friend--or could it be that the Reaper agrees deep within? The Raven’s eyes of black reach deep into the mind of our Creator’s brother. “Purpose!” Another squawk, “I give it to myself!” A pyre reaches high within the snowy desert--a land seen by all as a world of lucid dreams. Light brushes the face of the Reaper--keeping the eyes and face that do not exist lit so that the Raven may know its place, but no such effect. Through these flames, a hand of the Reaper thrusts, and brings about the materialized embodiment of the Reaper himself--a worn scythe. As simple as the Reaper exhibits himself--the scythe reflects such humbleness. Black and silver metal extends beyond the fading flames of the forsaken, fake environment. The crescent blade turns itself at the will of its Master--reaches around the neck of the stiff and confident Raven. “Am I not your Master, Raven? Am I not the Reaper of all?” “Reaper, yes!” Strength within the eyes of the flight-able beast. “Go, Reap!” The bird looks to the blade that abrades the flesh and feathers--a quick peck shakes the stiffened hold it has upon the mortal bird’s existence. “Reap!” Eyes of false vision widen--to surprise even the being that has existed since life originated. “Reap?” The blade eased away from the child of his own blackened aura; feathers for feathers. “Reap!” Calling out to his Creator, the Raven beckons a change--actions to be taken. “Reap!” Through the world of ash and dust--as He has seen it for all of what is perceived as time--a woman seizures upon the ground and awaits her demise; yet no relief transpires. Release of the soul, a woman awaits the cold hand of change; yet, only a failing heart and collapsing lungs comfort her while she waits. “I am needed.” A foot, unneeded as the wings beat against the skies of all topography, takes the first step toward the world of man. Metal rings when the scythe lands at his side--a walking stick for our gracious giver of life beyond life. Wings of molted black spread out and leave behind the world of fabricated realities. A creation of the Reaper is left to flap against the skies as its Master starts toward the target--toward she who would call upon Death’s sweet kiss and release. “Reap!” The Raven calls forth the vigor of time’s greatest rival. “Reap!” Cawing and screeching--the bird flies beside the escaping energy of the Reaper. “Forever and ever shall I reap--and forever I will have purpose.” Black wings and tattered cloths broaden and fade from the far and distant world--mankind’s world is once again invaded by the welcomed Reaper. Still in the home world of the Reaper flies the Raven. Back to the throne atop stone and fire--a world of snow or desert, the Raven lands atop the throne’s head. Making itself comfortable, the Raven watches as the human’s fearful eyes soon fall to rest easy and glance on eternity with motionless vision. Atop the stone throne stands the Raven--watching the Master work--watching the Master restore reason and order in the existence of his own existence--watching the Master from afar as His saving Grace. “Purpose.” Squawking calls, the Raven hops excitedly watching the Creator of change and death. “Given purpose!” The bird’s voice smoothes as the head cocks--the black eyes watching the careful movements of the Creator from afar. God’s brother--Death, has returned. “Purpose.