the4horseman

Lyrics

The sky distills to a bruised and hollow gray,
As four shadows lengthen across the light of day.
No thunder heralds the coming of the line,
Only the rhythmic pulse of a dark, ancient design.
The White Rider
The first comes crowned in a cold, metallic sheen,
Upon a steed of ivory, silent and serene.
A bow is bent, though no arrow takes its flight,
For conquest is a sickness that blossoms in the night.
With a victor’s grin and a gaze like polished glass,
He marks the borders where the living shall not pass.
The Red Rider
The second stirs the dust with a coat of burning rust,
Turning brother against brother in a fever of mistrust.
He wields a heavy blade that hungers for the heat,
Of a world torn asunder at his charger's thundering feet.
Where he rides, the peace is scorched and blown away,
Leaving only embers in the ruins of the fray.
The Black Rider
The third descends with the clicking of the scales,
A balance held aloft as the spirit of plenty fails.
Upon a horse of midnight, he weighs the wheat and oil,
Measuring the bitter fruit of a dry and dying soil.
A handful for a silver coin, a pittance for the breath,
He sows the seeds of emptiness before the gates of death.
The Pale Rider
The last arrives in a coat of ash and bone,
On a horse the color of a weathered, nameless stone.
He does not carry steel, nor does he wear a crown,
He simply gathers up the harvest that the others leveled down.
And following behind him, like a tide upon the shore,
Is the silence of the valley where the riders ride no more.