horsemen | day 25 | seasons
| war |
his grace is a knife, a clean cut through the hearts of men, a gentle laugh that eases unseemingly to a blistering hiss breath gentle though a bloody mouth, arms laden with the fruit of war
| death |
her embrace is a sagely caress, a truthful beacon to a destination far, auburn and gold wither, slowly falling to the dying earth below exhaling fumes, smoke and ash crumbling, a phoenix flame
| famine |
her eyes are empty, a void hollow, filled with want and greed, icy lashes drop a hypothermic frost, to sweep crops away in droves dancing a swan song, dressed white, heart heavy for the bodies that fall
| pestilence |
his body is a weapon, honed by suffering, by starvation festering wounds spill toxic seeds to seed a famine, a curse upon land tearing blooms from soft earth a crown of what could have been