Wide awake in shadows of the night,
I spy a moonlit spectre on the right.
The left, a brazen horse of fiery rage,
Styled in ebon ink upon the page;
Trampling prudence down where it may trod,
Spiriting the righteous unto God.
Mane as black as hills beneath the mount,
Where ashen sands and lava wash about,
To gently take the will of those who've come
Afar to find withdrawal from the sun.
Bristling, glistening, shrieking 'neath the moon,
Whistling as it sprints to usher doom.
Afeared my soul appear a facile theft,
I meekly pull my conscience from the left.