The Four Brothers of Equus

Gallops in the shadows, feared by mortals: bearing on their collars the stewards of blitz. Like thunder from beneath, their presence, sensed: beware, I daresay before facing the eve. The White Brother comes with the archer, crowned: the arrows have dogma, unfortunately, malign. Claiming the head although contrived, this rider leads by construing minds. Still fresh, the stains on the Red One’s skin; as his rider murders random martyrs. A lake of blood has now consumed- the soil that's stabbed by slaughter and war. The rider with scales is on the shoulders of Black: ignoring the famished and preferring the heeled. Discarding the purpose of balance and just, vultures feast on empty stomachs. The last to arrive is the Sickly Kin: senile and pallor, barely could he tread. His rider: a frame of calcium, decayed; they’re followed by the lord of lightless abyss. Brothers of Equus: on their shoulders, rest: the four beasts revealed from the final testament. The prophecy may have failed to disclose when will be; we can still, nonetheless, give light to each morning. Apocalypse are feared by those, unprepared; the others however, anticipate its advent.