In night's unholy, breathless shade,
Where hope and hearth alike do fade,
There glides a wraith with silent tread,
Whose gaze recalls the long-lost dead.
No heart it bears within its breast,
No sleep, no dream, no final rest.
Its hood, a veil of weeping skies,
Conceals a maw where silence cries.
It does not speak, it does not weep,
It does not hunger, only keeps
A vigil cold for souls that stray
Too far from light, too long away.
Its touch—a frost that cracks the flame,
Its breath—a whisper without name.
And when it leans to take its due,
The world itself grows pale and blue.
It drinks not blood, but all you are—
The songs, the griefs, the hidden scar.
It sips your soul in soundless dread
And leaves behind what might be dead.
O! Pray you never feel its kiss—
That long and slow, eternal hiss,
When time itself begins to stall
And all your dreams begin to crawl.
No grave awaits, no sweet release—
But layered screams that never cease.
You shall not burn, you shall not freeze—
You only beg. You only... please.