Upon a Pale White Horse

A man in his field, Whose heart rumbles fast, To fear he shall yield, The echoes of his past, Of a life he stole, The innocence he killed, Deep in his soul, No longer concealed. As a sound of thunder, Vibrates the ground, He’s lost in wonder, At this mysterious sound. But as the thunder nears, He knows its course, Now a vision he hears, That robed figure upon a pale white horse. Flowing in the wind, Is this vision of Death, Who’s face bears no skin, And breaths not a breath. In it’s bony hand, It wields a scythe, This soul forever dammed, Has come for a life. Grasping a book, That reads one name, And the life he took, Bearing the finger of blame. It is Death who’s come, For that lost soul, It can’t be undone, There is only one goal. He tries to hide, But cannot escape, Though the fields are wide, They match his fate, Death now arrives, At his final dwelling, Watching the cries, Of his silent yelling, It takes the life, Of a soul evil tainted, With that razor scythe, Now maroon painted. Upon the horse he’s tossed, Without screams or kicks, Now Death carries him off, To the river of Styx. So when thunder does fall, With that figure you see, Run or stand tall, You still can’t flee. In time it resides, Feeling no remorse, It is Death who rides, Upon the pale white horse.