Death comes riding upon a pale white stallion.
One of the four,
predicted by sage and oracles of old.
Determined to proceed against the forces of creation,
death makes a friend of the The pauper king.
Who rides into battle, high above all, upon a pale white stallion, believing he’ill never fall.
He will fall.
He will fall.
His army, every battalion,
follows the pale white stallion
faithfully to the edge of the earth.
Ahead rides the pauper king.
Leading his troup of the willing dead
Forever towards the cliffs edge.
A journey started,
an army
100000 strong,
the road long,
victory inevitable,
no way to go wrong.
They would speak his name in song and verse.
Yet None speak of the pale stallions curse.
Deception rides a pale white horse.
& Death has come to our seemly concourse.
The pauper king ahead rides alone.
His army spilled, scattered like shattered bone.
Murder paints
Every sunset like blood,
vultures,
innards, gizzards,
graves in the mud.
And above it all
rides the pauper king
on his pale white horse
of death.
As the pauper kings army dwindled.
The flames once kindled
in the hearts of his men
Now the arrow fletched in the hearts of his friends,
extinguished in their forlorn grief.
Battles lost
to the pauper kings disbelief.
Of his army too
the remaining few,
to weak to continue
were trampled underhoof
by the king and his battlehardened bloodstained
pale white horse,
the king and his stallion indeed.
Pushed on craving victory and greed, ignorance plagued the kings muddled mind-
Too distant from the front
to see his army failing behind.
A paupers fool ignored the signs and the set.
To many decadent dinners at another days end,
and victory, the pauper king could pretend,
while his army starved
And he forgot his allies and friends.
The pauper king never walked
on blistered feet,
under high noons punishing heat,
the pauper king rode high
on his pale througrobred,
seemingly safe,
ignoring his dead
In his tight bound saddle,
seemingly safe from danger,
Riding so high, he had become a stranger ignorant of the bleeding, the bridal strap ignorant of gnashed and tattered bit.
As his pale white stallion
reared, bit and kicked.
Oh pauper king,
you want them to sing songs
of your exploits and grace.
But you are blind to what is said by the many dead.
Never to your face.
Your pale horse may carry you foward into battle.
Your stallion gives all,
and your men fall like chattle.
The only song to be sung for you,
is of your army so few,
of those who are left,
And how they dispise you.
Your army perished under the endless summer sun,
your banners and your pride,
For a war that cannot be won,
Riding into battle,
like you were the only one.
Like You alone won every war.
You failed to note,
you did ignore
what was whispered by campfire light,
The pauper king may lead
but hes not fit to ride.
We your men
once friends, and hosts.
Behind you we stalk,
cursed cold deathly ghosts,
we haunt you,
we dam you
We demand of you to walk,
like we did.
Into the endless unknown.
Suffer and suffer
until you rot on your pale white throne.
A real king leads with what is shown.
A real king would take his men back home.
Yet your men speak behind your back,
it’s only a dagger they lack.
Take us home king,
Take us home.
In this follley, We wish not to rome
Cold steel and death has
hardened your heart.
The sight of blood so commonplace, from the very start.
Battles made us no stranger to mud,
We return to village after village,
now plundered and pillaged.
sadness wrought on the pesant face,
and tributes useless to mark the age.
When the pauper king rides his
Feet don’t touch the ground.
The pauper king struggles to
Control his white stallion,
struggles to control the remainder of his battalion.
ride, or die. The battle cry
Ride or die with me.
And those who flee…
Trampled and crushed
under powerful hooves
Stamping down
Hammering Down
On some.
Not all
Not all kings fall.
Not all kings fall
Not All his men
We’re his friends
At campaigns end,
The pauper king had mastered the reign,
of his pale horse of death, insane.
sharp , strenuous breath.
The king took his army to the cliffs edge and indulged the view.
Exclaiming-
The sky is such a pretty blue,
and for the traitors here a rocky drop too.
At worlds end
the white stallion was the kings only friend.
Ridden into forgotten battles
Killing peasant and stealing cattle.
Poisoned the fresh water.
Broke the hearts of many a daughter.
“Good day to die! kings cries to his loyal remaining few. Charging on his stallion against legion,
steel swords cut through
Aim for the king on that there white horse
His enemys said.
I want the pauper king dead.
I want his head.
And amid these battles the king can’t escape the remorse.
Kill the king, riding his pale white horse.
The king lost his army then, lost his army, his allies, his friends.
Of course
This War is pointless,
death Unites both sides.
In retreat the king rides but never hides.
On The pale hose of death.
One of 4 that herald the apocalypse,
death spoken on the oracles lips.
The Oracle said…
There will be Nothing left of for you pauper king, for war is never for the winning.
Take your stallion home, if you can find it. And pay your solders family’s well, for they rot in hell
due to your folley, your deeds, your greed.
Ride your stallion, pale and white,
Ride day and ride night
with nowhere to rome
All roads lead
All consequence lead home
Ride your pale horse of death pauper king
Ride now alone
Ride pauper king
Ride
Ride
Ride
Andrew Spencer (c) 2024
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