The Black Riders Are Here

Black Riders cannot be killed because they are already dead. Spawned from a godless world, no force can destroy them - unless that world is destroyed. They surround my house in furious anticipation. I can stay in and die or come out and die, either way. But my death they must have.

I've seen others in their time of dying gather guns and other useless weapons in vain pursuit of protection. The look of horror on their face when they find out the futility of what they've done is like seeing a man who suddenly realizes he's facing an oncoming train. Black Riders want you to arm yourselves in whatever way you feel makes you powerful and safe: your lie is their pathway to destroying you.

You can cry for help or disappear in silence, makes no difference. The very world that spawned the Black Riders cannot come to your aid. You're alone as Jesus on the cross, hung out to dry with no penitent hope. Some fools believe the Black Riders serve them and their purposes not knowing no living soul will be spared.

Some lament how things got this way, pointing and blaming. Some speak out against the Black Riders' rule in fiery opposition. Some chase rainbows that will set the world fantastically free from the consequences its own decisions. Some profess victory in self-immolation. Some profess glory in pointless sacrifice. None of it changes anything.

Powerless we're born and in helplessness we die. Every oar is tied together, those untouched as well as those that row forward and backward. Unity is a universal death sentence yet only in unity can there be hope - yet nothing true can be mandated. The world is its own victim, mandating death as survival's price. The only sound left last is the Black Riders' laugh.

He was oppressed and afflicted, yet he did not open his mouth;
he was led like a lamb to the slaughter,
and as a sheep before its shearers is silent,
so he did not open his mouth.