This facination with my reaper continues, as I walk in a cathedral and see a man leaning down. Ebony hair sweeps his shoulders, confident mischief marks his pose. His lips quirk up on one side, in an impish grin as he bows to me playfully. 'Death, my lady, ever at your service.' Now do I run? Or do I stay..... and take the hand he extends to me. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Colored pencils on black cardstock.