Beneath the moon’s pale, haunted glow,
Where autumn winds like whispers blow,
A scarecrow waits with eyes of flame,
A silent sentinel with no name.
His stitched smile hides a restless chill,
A heartbeat lost, yet watching still.
The cornfields bow with creaks and groans,
As if they sense his buried bones.
Each rustling stalk, each brittle leaf,
Breathes stories carved in autumn’s grief.
For once each year, on All Hallows’ night,
The Watcher wakes beneath moonlight.
No footstep echoes down the lane,
No traveler dares the field again.
For should you wander past his throne,
He’ll guard the dark… and claim his own.
© The Halloween Season
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