Through the cold, barren, desolate land

Death walks through, scythe in hand.

With skeletal face, swathed in black

His spectral gaze – only eyeballs lack.

Famine, War, Pestilence, the fourth is He,

Mounted ‘pon his pale Hell-steed.

As the seals of the Apocalypse begin to fall

They answer the sound of the trumpet’s call.

Empty sockets, hollow nose,

Ivory bone, pearly teeth in rows.

He views the World as a reaper must

And watches Man rise and fall to dust.

‘Pon the Ethereal plains he roams

And collects now parted dead Men’s souls

Time flows on – the sand glass pours,

He came for my Life and must soon reap yours.