As he lie down to sleep,
Out of the dark, did they creep.
The four creatures ever so grim,
Born of the darkness that was inside him.

First came Grief,
A surge of white-hot pain.
Then came Anger,
Red-faced and vain.
Soon followed Guilt,
Black clouds of dismal gale.
And finally Regret,
Turning everything grim and pale.

White, Red, Black and Pale they came,
As the Holy Book did name,
Rising from the abyss,
The Four Horsemen, the heralds,
Of his own personal Apocalypse.

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