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.
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