Three of the four give a thing,
One war, one sickness, one peace,
But the third takes a stranger role;
He takes, he steals the feast.
He watches as his victims starve,
And rots the grain to mud,
He can kill thousands in a day,
Without shedding a single drop of blood.
Over the golden fields of corn,
He rides his midnight steed,
Dragging a withered finger,
As he kills the human’s feed.
All around him people crave,
A crumb of bread, a single grain,
And he himself hungers most of all,
As he starves in his infinite reign.
To say he takes is to be too kind,
For he destroys all that he can find,
But unlike the pale horseman Death,
He does not seem to mind.
Who knows why he steals from our lips,
The thieving rider of the Apocalypse,
But he is Famine and his cruelty
Cannot be eclipsed.
Here is the penultimate part of the quartet. I hope that you enjoy reading it.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic