The Hollow Ones

In the quiet hours of the waning night,
Where shadows stretch beyond the light,
The Hollow Ones begin their tread,
From the corners where the lost have fled.

Their voices rise, a mournful hum,
A dirge of those who’ve come undone.
With hollow eyes that cannot see,
They hunt for souls to set them free.

Their limbs are twisted, frail, and black,
Their fingers claw, their spines do crack.
They crawl through cracks in rotting walls,
Their whispers echo through empty halls.

“Come to us,” they softly moan,
“We’ll grant you peace; you’re not alone.”
But their peace is cold, a void profound,
Where light is lost and dreams are drowned.

A flicker of hope, a candle’s flame,
Cannot withstand their deadly claim.
For every step they closer creep,
They steal the breath, the will to weep.

In the forest dark, where moonlight dies,
Their shadows writhe, their hunger lies.
Among the trees, the silent prey,
Cannot outrun, cannot delay.

For they are ancient, older than stone,
Born of despair, where light’s not shown.
Their touch is frost, their gaze despair,
A cursed eternity they bear.

You’ll feel them near when your breath turns cold,
When the stars above seem dim and old.
They thrive on fear, on dread and pain,
They feast on hope, what little remains.

Yet there’s no warning, no escape,
No lock to bar their shifting shape.
They’ll seep through dreams, through silent prayers,
And drag you deep to their lairs.

But if you hear their dreadful song,
Know the Hollow Ones have come along.
So run, though futile, scream, though vain,
For they will find you, feel your pain.

And when the dawn begins to break,
The Hollow Ones will cease to wake.
But those they claimed are never found,
Lost forever, beneath the ground.