Random assortment of semi-suicidal poetry

Waves

Cut it up
Set it free
This heart of mine
Can never be

The harrowing calls
Of horsemen three
Who is the fourth?
Could it be me?

Is it pestilence that grows
Inside my skin so deep
Is that why I see
All the things that shouldn't be?

Or maybe it's war
Thundering inside
Who wins, who knows
Its the blood I can't hide

Famine, perhaps?
It aches so
The longing to feel
For something to hold

For death it cannot be
Can it, I ask?
Is that the truth
Behind this mask?

I ramble on
As if it matters
As if the waves
Mourn what they shatter

As if the flame
Weeps over the corpse
Of the moth it seduced
Of the life that was lost

What matters though
Is what lies thus
Hope and joy
Even painful trust

Let them call
My horsemen 3
Let them beckon their master
For it may just be me