Four Horsemen

Though the dark seeps through
These long embattled walls,
I remember those of history.
Those men of wisdom, of ink
And paper who came before.

The puppet-master, whose many
Acts brought joy and sadness
To the hearts of his audiences.
Once he was the best in his field
Yet now in a field he lies,
Buried in conspiracy.

A second still lives, shut up
In self inflicted isolations.
He too set me on this path
To critical oblivion, an
Armageddon of words and
Black, inky blood on paper.

The bard too is long passed,
His words a great stain on history.
For many he breaths life into
A stagnant field of inspiration.
To me he brought the death
Of passed joys and I give thanks.

The fourth still lives, to this
Day scratching musings on
The doorpost of time. His words
Of beauty hidden in the morass
Of embittered peers. He is the
War bringer, this is his fault.