Black skies,
Clearest rains,
And the blackest of carriages
for the groom himself.

It rolled up to the church doors,
And the people turned their faces in fear
Of the silent groom.

They stared down at the ground,
And still he walked past,
Not a word from anyone,
As he reached the alter.

And finally there she was,
The bride herself,
In shining white,

And how the people turned to look at her!
The purest of brides,
The perfection of beauty!

Death looked up and smiled.
He knew he'd finally taken his queen.
And he'd be her king.

His hand he extended as she came to the alter.
It was covered in a leather glove.
And she took his strong hand in her delicate one,
The soft, whiteness of her skin barely holding its own
Against his strength.

And so it was
That Death was wed to Life.
For what could Death be from that point forward
Without his bride-
Life?

And where could Life be without her groom-
Death?

For the two exist along a fine line,
One melding right into the other.
One to serve the other,
And the other to serve the one.