Spur On the Black Horse

Spur on the black horse, for the cliff is near. The hooves hammer sand into dust, and the dust devils blind the perilous path. Loosen the reins, and kick the horse faster, as he heads into hell. The passing tombstones bear glorious epitaphs that are not seen, as the earth splits and grinds into ruin and raze. No shadows are cast, and feet are too small to fit the shoes of those trampled down. Markers will show no names, no dates, no words of praise, from the soldiers spreading red stains upon the earth, while haloes grow quickly into horns. The fat dine on bones of the thin, and sins are washed down with wine while we sleep and dream on star-spangled sheets. The spur pricks are spinning into one, forming the scorpion's tail. The sun grows hotter and the wind whips faster as the black horse speeds into hell.