In a realm where shadows fell, under the moon's arcane spell,
In a land untouched by the dawn, where light had long since withdrawn,
There stood a chapel of despair, in the cool and haunted air.
Through the stained glass, a spectral glow, seeping into the world below,
A figure cloaked in robes of midnight hue, his arrival but a chosen few knew.
The Angel of Death, of silent tread, a messenger of the living dead.
His eyes, twin orbs of molten gold, in their infinite depths, countless stories told,
Of lives extinguished, of dreams undone, beneath the setting of the blazing sun.
His wings, like darkness spun into lace, stretched out wide in this sacred space.
His touch, colder than winter's kiss, a harbinger of the eternal abyss,
The end of mortal stories, their final chapter, in his presence, silence captured.
The echo of the tolling bell, a solemn, mournful farewell.
Yet in his hands, a balance held, not just of doom, but mercy as well,
A release from life's torturous maze, a peaceful end to numbered days.
The Angel of Death, not just an ender, but truthfully for some, a gentle surrender.
In the chapel's cold embrace, the angel vanished without a trace,
His presence lingers as a ghostly hymn, on the precipice of life's grim rim.
His silhouette, still outlined on the wall, an ever-present reminder to all.
So, in the still of the moonlit night, under the stars' dying light,
Recall the tale of the Angel of Death, let his comfort slow your breath.
For though his chapel looms so tall, the Angel’s temple will never fall.
Trust in him, or don’t. Either way, it’s him who knows.
He knows the start, he knows the end. You’ve seen him before and you’ll see him again.
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