QUOTE
Astride his horse is where he sits,
His voluminous cloak is a perfect fit,
Across the world he travels,
To collect the balanced souls in shambles,
He takes the lives of those in pain,
Some feel they died in vain,
He passes through the streets undetected,
Living his life unaffected,
With his scythe he protects his being,
Only when the people become seeing,
Dark and alone he sits atop his horse,
Always traveling the proper course,
His mansion in the clouds is his lonely domain,
Thinking of how he will eventually be slain,
Riding his horse into the darkness he feels alone,
Wandering if he will find that place called home,
He is the figure we see in our head,
As we are lying in our death-bed,
As we see him we scream in fear,
Knowing that the end is near,
He is there and are souls are collected,
Missing the love from the ones we rejected,
The reaper is grim,
As he watches the world in the light that is dim,
He turns his back and removes his hood,
Returning to work when he feels he should.
"Rider On The Pale Horse", Drew Skiles Hubbard, August 2001
QUOTE
Stalwart warriors note the slaughter
Blameless people caught in the fire
Parents, sons and only daughter
None for killing that we desire!
Innocents they with trusting faces
Frantically hoping for another day
Vainly search for secret places
Even sacred where kneel to pray.
But from this Rider there’s no hiding
On a Horse sickly pale
Merciless Death does his biding
And in this task will never fail.
"The Pale Horse", Mac McAnear
QUOTE
The wind hot and foul,
Reeking of a creek downstream from a dump.
He lay limp among them
Crouched against a revetment,
His life's blood running from him as a
Painter's oils mixed too thin,
Blurring the portrait's image.
Ending here in the sand seemed a wonder,
After days upon days of searing sun
And nights of thunder... without rain,
Just the downpour of hot steel.
And never a scratch, but then
The big one.
Bleakest irony squirmed in his head.
So where was the brass band?
Shouldn't one depart as he entered...
With ruffles and flourishes?
Simply too many dead for such formalities.
The sky darkened though the sun burned high,
In his dimming light the whir of a rotor
Drew closer, starkly announcing the sliver of a chance,
But racing against the lone figure of a rider
On a pale horse.
"A wounded soldier meets a vision of death in Operation Desert Storm", Andrew Ceroni, December 01, 2002