On the first night till the year’s close,
A single crow by the window rose.
Its eyes like embers, its cry like pain,
It whispers, “They’re watching, they’ll come again.”
On the second night, the candles burned,
A flicker for each soul that never returned.
In the mirror’s glare, shadows danced,
A ghostly waltz of forgotten chance.
On the third night, the clocks did freeze,
Time stood still with a deathly tease.
“Beware the hour,” the old ones said,
“When midnight strikes, they’ll rise from the dead.”
On the fourth night, a bell was rung,
By unseen hands, its toll unsung.
Each chime a warning, a cursed decree,
That no one escapes what the end will be.
On the fifth night, a mask appeared,
Hollow eyes and a grin so weird.
Wear it once and you’ll feel the chill,
Of all the lives the mask did kill.
On the sixth night, the wind did howl,
Through empty streets where spirits prowl.
They knock on doors, three times precise,
Inviting the brave to pay their price.
On the seventh night, a feast was laid,
Of rotting fruit and bread decayed.
Tradition claims a bite must be taken,
Or the spirits will see you as forsaken.
On the eighth night, the stars fell low,
The sky bled red, an ominous glow.
Children whispered of faces in trees,
And names carved deep by unseen pleas.
On the ninth night, the river turned black,
Its depths calling for souls to come back.
A lantern floats where none should tread,
Guided by hands of the long-since dead.
On the tenth night, the floorboards creaked,
Footsteps echoed though no one peeked.
“Close your eyes when they come near,
For what you see may cost you dear.”
On the eleventh night, the church bells rang,
But no one knew who pulled or sang.
A hymn of sorrow filled the air,
Of doom for those who didn’t care.
On the twelfth night, the animals fled,
Leaving the town to the soon-to-be dead.
“Mark your door with ash and stone,
Or face the end cold and alone.”
On the thirteenth night, whispers grew,
A thousand voices, old and new.
They spoke of sins and secrets hidden,
The clock now strikes; your time is ridden.
On the fourteenth night, the wind stood still,
A silence more chilling than winter’s will.
The moon hung low, its face turned black,
A harbinger of what won’t turn back.
On the fifteenth night, the air turned gray,
No dawn would break, no light would stay.
The bells would toll, the feast would rot,
And the living would join those they forgot.
When the year is done, so too are we,
A cycle broken, lost to the sea.
For those who wait, beware the chime,
The end comes swift with no regard for time.
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