The moon silhouettes the twisted trees,
the branches spike to the sky
like crooked fingers,
but to whom are they pointing?
The mist rises in the wood of Hollow,
creatures flee to the safety of the burrow,
the thundering hooves of the blackest mare
will pass, so beware,
for on her back sits the riding master,
headless, and sinister
but an acute equestrian rider.
Every night he will go, to the place he bled
in an endless seek for his head,
His search for the living killers, passed long ago
and now he rides seeking residual foe.
His cape, flows and flips upon broad shoulders,
like a bat on a night hunt.
And when the thunder beats upon the earth
for the sight of the Headless Horseman
will and can,
literally scare to death.