“Blacken the snow 

by a Pale Horse ride!”

Scream billions, to and fro

History’s sordid tide:

 

Voices, in life, forgotten,

And, in death, so thrown

‘neath breathless air, begotten

between pockets of dirt, overgrown

 

by the weeds of men: plastic,

who shallow, petty, abide

what shovels, bury frantic,

a depth where hearts, tender, confide!

 

Now, loose, makes the soil,

the Horse’s Rider,

Who reaps the weeds, coiled,

‘round sinister hearts, the wider:

 

so that, surround, they can,

all beauty to stifle!

Hands eager to fan,

such flames, of a bloodstained rifle!

 

Now, the Horse’s Minion,

Around us, so arranged,

to sing mighty, of the pinion

of hell’s mill, oft deranged!

 

And open the mouth, he does,

To rail with the sweet Song

of what shadows, he now loves,

since all within man, is wrong:

 

“Show me a man, never wished for death,

and I’ll show you one, who loved not once! 

For affection, it is, in ceaseless breath,

wants nothing awake, if blood so runs!

 

Now do I ride, at the Apex of Time,

To sever each head,

never cared for my rhyme!

Apocalypse, now, runs history’s thread,

since man, when he can, loves not, but crime!

 

Long have I watched, and longer endured

these snide, lying lips, who scorched my dear earth! And 

longest did I wait, long ‘fore I 

concurred, that hopeless are all, in this sickly hearth!

 

Home have you crushed, and warmth despised, but for 

others, in full, and for yourselves, compromised! 

Measly is the part, of what misery you’d take, 

but great was the lot, unto others’ sake!

 

Now greater, your rot,

Another shall bring,

As I storm, and spare not,

who’d connive, for mercy, cling!”

 

Now, here comes the Rider,

so sing with me, dear!

And perhaps you’ll see,

Why the skies are unclear!

For once we’d be free,

If not in act, we feared,

To clasp hands in sweet plea,

to Grace precious, and near!

 

Your hands, with me,

could’ve kissed, and jeered

the waves of Fate’s sea,

and made love, and cheered!

 

But,

 

now, came the sword,

and, apart, we died.

What life, we’d afford,

if not, through us,

so many,

had 

 

cried.

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “The Rider”, 04-30-25

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© 2025 by Ryan Vincent Smith