When the night grows still and the air turns cold, some say the veil between life and death thins just enough to let the lost linger. It begins as a faint whisper—an icy draft that slithers through the trees and over gravestones. The old folk call it the dead man’s breath—a chilling omen carried on the wind, warning that something unseen is near.
In shadows deep, where moonlight wanes,
A chilling tale of dread remains,
A dead man’s breath, a ghastly plight,
On Halloween’s unholy night.
Beneath the earth, where spirits roam,
An eerie wind begins to moan,
It whispers of a soul long gone,
Whose breath is felt when dusk is drawn.
Through graveyard gates, the zephyrs creep,
Their icy touch, a shiver’s leap,
A spectral gasp, a phantom sigh,
From lips that kissed the last goodbye.
In haunted fog, the dead man’s breath,
Resides amid the realm of death,
A cadence in the rustling leaves,
As spectral echo softly grieves.
Beware this eve, when veils are thin,
And specters dwell ‘neath pale moon’s grin,
For if you feel a spectral wraith,
You’ve brushed the breath of one who’s swathed.
In every howl of spectral breeze,
The dead man’s breath, it seeks to seize,
A morbid pulse, a spectral dance,
In twilight’s macabre circumstance.
So, as you roam through haunted night,
And eerie phantoms take their flight,
Remember well this warning stern,
The dead man’s breath, it waits its turn.
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