Beneath the moon’s pale, ghostly light,
A shadow stirred in the dead of night.
Silent footsteps, soft as a sigh,
Wove through the air, where whispers lie.
The town slept sound, their doors locked tight,
Yet still they feared the Watcher’s sight.
An unseen gaze from the forest deep,
Kept every dreamer from restful sleep.
Legends spoke of his midnight stroll,
A cloaked figure with an empty soul.
His eyes, they said, were endless pits,
Where stolen dreams forever sit.
Once, a wanderer dared to stay,
And ventured close at the break of day.
The Watcher loomed in the shadowed glen,
Where dawnlight dared not enter in.
“Why do you wander where I reign?
Do you not fear eternal pain?”
The wanderer shook but boldly lied,
“I seek the truth you choose to hide.”
The Watcher laughed, a hollow sound,
And raised his hand toward the ground.
From the soil rose screams and cries,
Echoes of lives he’d paralyzed.
“Go back, or join their endless wail.
The price of answers is their tale.”
The wanderer fled, their courage shattered,
Their steps unsteady, their thoughts scattered.
So now they say, beneath the moon’s pale glow,
Do not seek what you need not know.
For in the forest, dark and dire,
The Night Watcher guards with silent ire.