Something Wicked This Way Comes

Beneath the moon’s cold, fractured gleam,
The village rots inside a dream.
The trees stand still, the fog hangs numb,
And something wicked this way comes.

Its shadow splits the ashen air,
With crooked limbs and eyeless stare.
Through broken paths and blackened loam,
It walks as if the dark’s its home.

No prayer survives its silent tread,
No hearth can warm the nameless dead.
The wind goes still, the night succumbs,
For something wicked this way comes.

It towers where the grave-mist swells,
A shape half-born from ruined hells.
Its presence bends the woods undone,
And blots the memory of the sun.

You see it once—too late to flee.
It does not hunt. It simply is.
A looming oath, a final breath,
A face more old than death itself.

So bar your door and dim your flame,
It knows your heart. It knows your name.
And when the breathing in the dark drums,
Know something wicked this way comes.