The Fiend That Lurks

The fiend, oh the fiend, — A shadow-born terror, hidden and keen, with glittering sockets and a sharpened sheen; it threads through sleep like a furtive machine, a coldness that gathers where warmth had been.

The fiend, oh the fiend, — It waits where lamplight thins and corners fray, a hunter whose hunger will not look away; it chooses the timid, the fragile it will sway, then leaves behind echoes that quietly stay.

The fiend, oh the fiend, — It drinks the small cries, every hollowed plea, consumes the whispered why and the secrets that flee; it gathers up shadows we swore we'd never see, and paints the air with a hush that wants to be.

Its touch is a curse, — A scorch that chills the marrow through, a murmur trading lies for a truth made new; it pries at doubts you thought you had outgrew, then stirs them soft, drawing nearer to you.

So if its voice drifts outward in the quiet night, — Hold close your calm and keep it from your sight. For roads it wanders seldom curve or sway; yet steadiness can keep its gloom at bay, and see you safely through to dawning day.