When the moon turns crimson, the sky turns black,
And shadows dance where light’s been hacked,
On this night of whispers and chilling frost,
The moon’s red glow has a terrible cost.
In a village where whispers fill the air,
A dance begins, born from despair.
The clock strikes twelve, the ground does quake,
As the spirits rise from their deep, dark lake.
They glide and twirl in the crimson glow,
Their eyes are hollow, their faces aglow,
They call to the living with haunting sighs,
Drawing them near with their dreadful eyes.
A figure emerges from the mist so thick,
A ghostly bride, her steps are quick,
With hair of night and eyes like flame,
She beckons the lost, they know her name.
The waltz it twists, the steps turn cold,
As they dance beneath the moon so bold,
Once you join the cursed parade,
Your soul is lost, and your body swayed.
For as the clock strikes one more beat,
Your feet will shuffle, your heart will cease,
And when the dance comes to its end,
You’ll be another soul the spirits send.
So beware the Blood Moon’s awful light,
If you’re caught in its waltz, you’ll never take flight,
For in the shadows, your fate’s entwined,
And forevermore, you’re left behind.