Apocalyptic Harvest 

A distant sound of thunder as the horsemen of the Apocalypse ride asunder.

Even though four they ride as one. Harvest draws in, a time to plunder, souls aplenty.

Horses as black as the darkest fears, with burning red eyes, and upon their backs horsemen born of deepest hellfire. 

From their nostrils blows the wind of the banshee, as scythes thrash bringing famine, plague, fire and death.  

Hoofs gallop upon rivers of blood while the sky burns a fiery red, and the skull faces of the horsemen grimace in delight at the bountiful harvest of destiny. 

Chill echoes in the wind  – “we plough, we sow, we reap”