In the midnight mist where the willows weep,
A stranger roams in a world of sleep.
His steps are soft, his shadow tall,
He drifts through dreams that beckon all.
He wears no shoes, his feet are bare,
And the moonlight weaves through his silver hair.
Eyes wide open, yet seeing none,
He walks beneath the fading sun.
The path he treads is old and cracked,
Through haunted woods where spirits act.
Each tree leans closer, each branch does groan,
As if to whisper, “You’re not alone.”
At the witching hour, he finds his way,
To a house forgotten, in deep decay.
The air is thick, the windows glare,
The Sleepwalking Stranger lingers there.
Inside the walls, the clocks don’t tick,
Their silence heavy, their faces sick.
A melody hums from a hollow stair,
Calling the stranger unaware.
Up he climbs, each step a creak,
To a room that only nightmares seek.
A mirror hangs, its surface dark,
Reflecting not the world, but a phantom’s mark.
And there he stands, with vacant face,
Lost in the mirror’s cursed embrace.
The reflection grins, its eyes ignite,
While the stranger’s soul fades into the night.
So heed this tale, and lock your door,
For the Sleepwalking Stranger seeks once more.
He roams through dreams, both near and far,
His hollow gaze where nightmares are.