Who are the herdsmen in this wilding night
that gather up the straggled waywardness
of those who clothe their weak, subsistent selves
in shrouded veils of faded silken dreams?
How safe is walled defence against fell wraiths
whose howling makes the nightmares shift and stamp,
intent to tear them free from stable thought,
white-eyed with terror, baring foam-flecked teeth?
Who saddles them, these fearsome warhorse mounts
that carry fallen angels, poisoned breath
and hate? What drives the palpitating beat
of drums that thud in honour of a god
against the weak and frail, who crouch behind
thin walls of clay and wait, no place to go?
Apocalyptic horsemen ride once more
to raze the withered remnants. No recourse.
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Author Notes
Some thoughts on the situation in Mosul.
Image: Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Death, Famine, War & Conquest, an 1887 painting by Viktor Vasnetsov.
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