The Four upon The Great Bridge

Four now stand upon the bridge
beneath the sky of umber
starless, moonless, cloudless
the thin wind which never stops
whistling about the piers and balusters
the rails and stones
the spire of the cathedral visible this time
sometimes it is not

The Seer, The Priest
The Eagle, The Dove

they would doubt the reality of their being
but for the grit of the railing beneath their hands
the feeling on their fingers and palms
like sandpaper
the sound of the grit beneath their feet
when they move 
the cold wind caressing their faces
like the fingers of death

The Great Machine hammers away
far beneath The City
forging link by link
the great chain of darkness
they can hear the hammer falls in the air
they can feel the hammer falls in their feet

while in other chambers
lit by the glow of decay
sometimes green
sometimes blue
work the locksmiths
who bind the soul to the flesh
with keys whose wards are intricately cut
in forms fantastical
the lyric of death

The Seer (whose eyes are the eyes of man) sees the Face of the one who is coming
The Dove (who has not eyes but embers glowing) sees that which the Dark One sees
The Eagle (whose eyes are gold refined) sees that which lies hidden in the distance
The Priest, (whose eyes are filled with fire) burning sees through all deception 

Thought and Memory circle above
riding the currents 
of the cold brown wind