When twilight fell and moonlight swayed,
The faceless man began his parade.
Through creeping fog and whispers grim,
None dared to look too long at him.
No eyes to see, no lips to speak,
A hollow visage, ghostly bleak.
His cloak of shadow brushed the ground,
And silence wrapped the world around.
He walked the edge of the lonely moor,
A place where mortals tread no more.
A mournful tune the wind would sing,
Of terror born in the fog’s cold ring.
“Beware the man without a face,
Who haunts the land, who leaves no trace.
His touch will steal your dreams away,
And cast your soul to endless grey.”
They said his mask was not his own,
A curse of sins he once had sown.
Each soul he claimed, a fragment gained,
Yet still his emptiness remained.
One moonlit night, a wanderer came,
Drawn to whispers that called his name.
A scholar seeking ancient lore,
Unwitting, stepped to the moor’s dark shore.
The fog rolled thick, the air grew still,
The faceless man approached at will.
No cry escaped, no breath was drawn,
The scholar’s light of life was gone.
In morning’s glow, the moor was bare,
No sign of footsteps lingered there.
But in the mist, a shadow formed,
Another soul, the curse transformed.
So, if you walk where shadows creep,
And hear the fog’s lamenting weep,
Remember well this tale of fright:
The faceless man walks there tonight.