Through muted twilight the stranger walks,
silent, slow and steady in the rolling hills,
every footstep leaving withered, blackened stalks
that lay flat as the wind stills.

The night holds its breath deep within,everything frozen.
Even Death stays his hand,
never to touch the one who has no kin-
another like him could not be found in any land.

Like ink he stumbles from shade to shadow,
knowing no path, no trail, as if blind.
He never rests, his pauses short, heat or snow
does not hold his feet. His walks haunt my mind.

His lonesome cry echoes from the lakes placid,
and to it no creature dares reply.
It holds something that cannot be hid-
I know not what, but the time to leaves draws nigh.

Its best to flee from his clammy touch,
for no other reason than I know not what it holds.
I will not be grasped......the risk is to much,
I must hurry, I fear his approach, and I am not bold.

Thy feet make nary a living
sound across the once hallowed grounds.
Back thence, to thy home thou dost flee, why?
To escape me?

Canst thou stand my face?
Be my breath poison to thine race?
Be it mine skin? Mine eyes?
Mine presence make thy fear arise?

Would my touch bring thee to an end?
Cause thy flesh to rip and rend?
Fall apart like scattered flowers
tossed behind in midnight hours?