The
Pale Horse
by Alex Schnur
Death comes not upon a
pale horse,
but riding on a blood
clot,
prowling through an
artery.
It hides in piles of
filth
and the insides of
microbes,
on the wings of birds
and the dust of a coal
mine.
Death waits in the wings
of our vices,
swirling in the bottoms
of bottles
perched upon cigarettes
packed into pills
dripping from needles
and homogenized into
trash food.
It lurks in the oceans,
both the shallows and the
depths.
It waits on the
mountains,
in both snow and stone.
Sometimes death takes to
stage
and you see it coming,
dramatically,
as fast or as slow as it
likes.
Other times death is a
thief,
quick as lightning,
and before you can hear
the thunder
your life is gone.
About
the poet: Alex
Schnur is currently working to achieve a bachelor's degree in English
from Indiana University - Purdue University Columbus, with a
concentration in creative writing. He only refers to himself in
third-person for the purpose of crafting biographical statements.