They came in lines of seven or eight,
Marching forward towards death’s gate,
Their boots trampled through the mud,
As they moved past pits of bones and blood,
The air was dark as the first line past,
Their breaths condensing as they marched fast,
The cavalry rode up on black horses behind,
Slaughtering the children, the deaf and the blind,
Then came the archer’s shooting iron rain,
Killing those talking and sparing those insane,
Then at the head of the crowd a pale horse came,
Its rider was death, the one who held the blame,
Next to death came a red warhorse, its screech echoing the army’s call,
For the Conqueror sat astride its back, bringing control over them all,
And next came a great white horse with silver hooves,
That chimed as its rider War moved.
Until finally bearing a great black flag and riding Satan’s horse,
Came Justice, long cape flowing showing to the others, no sorrow or remorse.
And at last they all did pass in time and left this land,
Kicking up clouds of dust and dirt and sand.
The four horsemen vanished into the night,
Along with their army they rode from sight.
Until the world was left bruised and sore,
In the after math of the thing we call war.
