---

Scythe wielder, upon the pale horse

Harbringer in an aura of doom

Whom severs the mortal coil

And inhales the dying breath

Abstinent from mercy

Often summoned by fear

Though his presence may be dinstant

His arrival is imminent

Mors tua - vita mea

In sihlouette of Saturn's ring

A shadow, dimmed and devoid

Eclipse of the dimnished flame

Into smoke and ashes

Into the arms of Azrael

Bringer of fate

Reaper of the spirit

Descending from a darkened sky

Upon the pale horse

The lunar sickle

Alignment into the harvest

The curved blade of life and beyond

Forged not linear

But twisted into form

Who wields the scythe

Upon the pale horse

Abstient from mercy

Often summoned by fear

Though his presence may be distant

His arrival is imminent

The pale horseman descends

Bearer of the scythe

Harvester at the veil

Ender of all life

In silhouettes of shadows

Which the aura eclipses the light

Equestrian of damnation

The taker, of life

Risen above the fallen grains of sand

Which have sunk into the hourglass

The body once a temple, now empty

And all that once held life, no longer remains

Fate bringer - reaper of the spirit

Death dealer - from upon his pale horse

Descending from a darkened sky

Upon the pale horse he rides

Cloven hooves of the fiercest storm

Which beat to the pulse of tempests

To release the living energy

Which never dies

And always changing form