Gallops in the shadows,
feared by mortals:
bearing on their collars
the stewards of blitz.
Like thunder from beneath,
their presence, been sensed:
beware, I daresay
before facing the eve.
The White Brother comes
with the archer, crowned:
the arrows have dogma,
unfortunately, malign.
Claiming the head
although contrived,
this rider leads
by construing minds.
Still fresh, the stains
on the Red One’s skin;
as his rider murders
random martyrs.
A lake of blood
has now consumed-
the soil that's stabbed
by slaughter and war.
The rider with scales
is on the shoulders of Black:
ignoring the famished
and preferring the heeled.
Discarding the purpose
of balance and just,
vultures feast
on empty stomachs.
The last to arrive
is the Sickly Kin:
senile and pallor,
barely could he tread.
His rider: a frame
of calcium, decayed;
they’re followed by the lord
of lightless abyss.
Brothers of Equus:
on their shoulders, rest:
the four beasts revealed
from the final testament.
The prophecy may have failed
to disclose when will be;
we can still, nonetheless,
give light to each morning.
Apocalypse is feared
by those unprepared;
the others however,
anticipate its advent.
