The Stranger
Eyes like coals with secrets burning,
Mien of sorrow, cold and yearning,
Whispers 'neath the moon discerning,
Echoes of a soul left turning.

Cloaked in mantle, tattered, flowing,
Footsteps hushed, yet ever knowing,
Through the misty night, bestowing
A presence numbing, fear's seeds sowing.

Who is he, this spectral dweller?
From what depths, what silent cellar,
Has he come, this silent feller,
With aura of a timeless teller?

Glimmering stars their light bestowing,
On his path, where shadows growing,
Cast upon the ground, foreboding,
The stranger's fate, in silence, showing.

Beneath the veil of midnight's gleaming,
In his wake, the world is dreaming,
Of the stranger, ever scheming,
In the tapestry of midnight, streaming.

Lost within his enigmatic plight,
In the hours of eternal night,
The stranger wanders out of sight,
Fading into morning's light.

Yet echoes linger in the air,
Of the stranger, gaunt and spare,
In the soul's dark, deep despair,
A haunting presence, ever there.

© Brian C. Jobe