Plague

The horse he drives before him,

Is the pale shade of the dawn,

But on wheels of darkness,

His sickly green carriage is drawn.

The hooves raise boils from the earth,

The wheels leave tracks like scars,

And when his feet touch healthy ground,

It's barren as the stars. 

Ichor drips from his steed's flanks,

As illness sweeps the land,

It follows in his charging track,

And kills what was once whole and grand.

The knight who rides Epidemic,

Is from the end of times born,

And brings with him mourning for wellness,

He leaves only that which is torn.