The Birth of Death
A poem by CCMars

At the beginning of the world,
in a field only grass and rocks had seen,
the sun’s beams and the moon’s rays
joined themselves as one.

The water from a newborn
river rose to join the pact,
as well as a leaf
from every tree
and a rock from every cliff.

The clouds saw this as well as
the stars,
and they, too, sent their light.

The fire joined the event,
and so did the wind;
each element disappeared,
and from there came a new form.

A light burned,
then disappeared,
becoming black as fast as it did white.

The circle rose and took shape,
to the form of one that would be chosen,
the one to decide
each and every fate.

Cloaked in a black silk dress
that matched her long hair,
in one hand she held
a large candle holder,
made with shining gold and
topped with three white candles.

The sun said to the newborn
as she lit the first candle,
"This candle will reopen the door
to the ones who left too early.
Help guide them to their better years."

The moon lit the second candle
and he said to the girl,
"To seek vengeance
against those who try to trick you.
The light will be the sword,
but the punishment is yours to decide."

The stars lit the middle candle,
bowed to their dear child and said:
"Use this light to guide you
between two worlds.
One houses the living,
the other holds the dead."

The elements then bestowed their gift:
The Mark of Souls,
burned onto her right palm,
the key to a body’s soul.

Without a word,
the young woman bowed in
her gratitude and vanished.

Thus, the once open
circle of life forever closed,
and the woman named Death
began her task,
bound to do so until,
like Death at her birth,
life vanished forever more.