There stands the shadowman,
outlined against the moon.
Pity you who have found him,
by calling out his name.
Quiet, watching, eyeless he answers,
never in response to your call,
but through his need to seek you out,
and haunt your every move.
He calls forth the fog,
to shroud others’ prying eyes;
then dampness too,
to weigh down your soul.
When finally, you’re trapped,
unable to go anywhere,
his boney fingers envelop,
and he swallows you whole.
Yes, woe is you who have called him out.
For now, the sun can only hide,
but never erase, the shadowman,
now that he’s been called.