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And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was
Death, and Hell followed with him.
There is a comfort in the unseen. that which we do not acknowledge is a blessing to behold, our savior's silent promise of another day. this is something taken for granted, misunderstood. with our eyes shut tight and our hands clenched in prayer, we eagerly ignore what brushes past pleated skirts, tugs on pressed trousers. the devil moves between shoulders, beneath the chins tucked in absolution.
as we seek forgiveness for our trespasses, he bears witness. he sees the snakes that slither at our bare feet, sits alongside those who cannot, themselves, move forward. no ignorance can be found in this, no cheek is there to turn. he wades through the depths of muck, crosses a line leading not to heaven, nor to hell. he is unafraid, for he is not alone.
damned, they say, touched by the hand of the devil. he seeks no reward; his is a service provided out of necessity. the losses he has faced have left him with a weight visible to his posture. out of the darkness, he recreates a light — prays to no god, but himself. no mercies take their leave with him as he regards the door. he was a good man, once. he is a soldier now, part of a war drafted by two sides of an unholy regiment. strange, they call him. there is no comfort in what he sees.
through the tulips. an original verse.