The Haunted Spirit
It whispers low on midnight’s breath,
A shadow wreathed in mist and death.
Not born of grace, but spectral might,
It haunts the veil 'tween dark and light.
It stirs the winds, it bends the flame,
A nameless force none dare to name.
Through hollow halls, its echoes creep,
Disturbing souls that once could sleep.
A ghostly hymn, a mournful wail,
It rattles chains that time made frail.
A shrouded guide, a cursed friend,
To those who stray where sorrows end.
Its eyes, unseen—yet ever near,
It feeds upon the breath of fear.
With spectral touch, it marks the air,
A lingering chill of pure despair.
Yet some would call upon its hand,
To guard their steps through haunted land.
A force unknown, its wisdom deep,
Though bound within the night’s cold keep.
So heed the whispers in the night,
When lanterns flicker, dim with fright.
The Haunted Spirit waits below,
In mist and moonlight’s spectral glow.
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