Sunday, 19 June 2011

he is number four

go forth, valiant, trusty steed,
gallop now a steady flight;
and of the time, pray, pay no heed,
descend silently into the night.

and with you take these souls of babes, their ribcage oft'n skinless bared,
while stomachs bloat with gaseous falter - breath from neighing nostrils flared.
thy brother mare, of taint sanguine,
ride templar thrown from wild thrashing;
spew gushing blood from kin of mine,
good for absolutely nothing.

taint of blood and sin of flesh, be gone and sound horns of retreat,
for in one's victory war cries, sings eulogy of kin's defeat.

but hark! who goes there, callous fiend?
with unarmed hand, and sorrow'd fame;
and wreak stench of rot and gangrene,
verily, oh, death is thy name.

let your disciple do your bid, and flay our souls from bodies lie,
that even aeons come to pass, that deathless beings even may die.
despair, thee, mortal, hope does no more,
a fourth is come, dressed sickly white;
but what lust has this equine for?
blanch'd hooves upon whose mount takes flight?

with submissive fault faith demise'd, let havoc loose to end's degree,
mayhap hope persists insomuch, a lamb to save us from brothers three.

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