The Fall of Ambrose Bierce

The smoke becomes pretentious,
it's hideous.
It states the notion that words and failures are no more.
The creature's motives are obvious.
Despite the slaughter, each breath's more vibrant than the last.
I'm content here because I know Death's a dignitary and I will not meet him in bed.

The horses strain like inmates.
They're terrified, and with good reason.
For tonight we're solely skin and gore.
Now fangs are pistols and I'm in line.
But damn it, I will stack them in piles until I'm called.
They come and lick my neck but with a serpents tongue, but this pale villain is just a means and an end.
'Your porcelain pierces my fragile skin, is my taste divine? Savour this my wine.' I won't just wait for sickles to seize.

'This black horseman descends to his purpose. At last language holds its meaning here, opaque words become clear.'
Typewriter keys become our words, and shot of rifles.
The rhythm's monumental once more, because these adjectives are more than romantic.
Come, down some bourbon one more time so we can't feel the ending.
Drink up! My circulation's harsh.
I won't just wait.