Bill Simmons Poet Narrative

A Pale Horse

Midnight lightning in the sky
Man in black he passes by
It seems to me he is out of place
With the look of death upon his face

Can't see his eyes, no soul inside
Although he walks, he is not alive
Followed by a pale white horse
The one called death, he holds his course

The demons gather about his feet
Thunder abates, the lightning streaks
For the hand of death, one soul he seeks
As he paces, paces down the street

The fog it creeps, it settles in
In front of a home, his search it ends
In the still of night, a breath of wind
He climbs on his steed and rides again

Did you hear the small child cry? 
As it took first breath of life? 
One he lives, and one he dies
As away on a pale white horse he rides.

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