❪ 𝐃. ❫

𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 say death sits in a greenhouse reading poetry on his days off.  an espresso and a pack of virginia slims beside him, easy at hand.  his lips curl into a soft frown, listening to thunder pound against the glass of the greenhouse.  butterfly's stay safe among the flourish of plants.  all different colors, all mean the cusp of death.      they even say he is a pleasant man to be around. one of wisdom and very few jokes.  come inside his greenhouse, have a talk while his familiar stares at you with her large eyes.  his barn owl familiar, curious little thing.  his eyes filled with a love for her, always happy to speak with her, especially any wandering soul coming in for a small visit.  
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