This ashen womb
Grey and fetid with insects
War torn lands and disease
As clouds of dust and locusts [bad word] in the wake of a black horse
His mount holding the scales
To foretell man's fate
There will be no harvest
There will be no rebirth
There will be no harvest
The fields are bare
Desolation [bad word] ground 
The plight of man in times of hunger
An urge that consumes to control
And undermine the stability of the mind 
The only strength is desperation
feeling innate as to starving prey
The future is seen as the predator
Time is it's teeth upon the neck
Where is the provider if not the womb
It has repulsed and descended
To a greater state to deny man
The tip of the scales seals their fate
As the trees wither so does the will
Man's fortitude has changed with the seasons
No longer with us