Riding a pale horse,
Death is not a hooded skeleton.
Scythe bone-knuckled gripped,
Sockets wide as lunar craters
With stars flickering in their depths,
And teeth gleaming like ashen tombstones
Under the arc of a massive crescent moon.
Death is when
They would sooner bask
In the shadow of the cross,
Than venture through splintery light
At each crossroad on their journeys.