ryder on a storm
death on a pale horse
whistled through my line of vision
a ryder on a stormy mission seeking
a slowly ripening image
of a numinous gathering storm
as I leafed beyond pages not well worn…
falling back to the middle I pondered…where are the other
three in apocalyptic allegories -- persuasion perverted?
am I missing some veiled trinity: grim gated, worried
in this prison on this palette?
And then I see the clockwise motion of the time suggested,
backwards in illusion where all the details
reek of realities obscured ~ seems
everything in this world's barren or inverted?
And so I search the darkened
varnished painted words suggested by
the suicide? The candlegrease and alcohol
all fat over the lean, reap the wanderer who
calls upon us all whether fair or mean?
Where is the justice in that?
are we all perverted lean layered over fat?
foolhardy temptation of a life half-lived
in desperation of a peace that’s never quite realized?
never lived?
Albert Pinkham Ryder "Death on a Pale Horse"
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