A wooden mass moves through the trees,
Wheels straining amongst green crocks,
Inside are dreams that nobody sees,
A lantern sways as the carriage rocks.

A pallid figure clasps the reigns,
Of haunting, onyx, ghost-like steeds,
A wolf howls and seems to drain,
The feeling that this is a dream.

The movement stops and all falls still,
The birds stop calling, the animals mute,
A voice is heard, enraged and shrill,
The carriage door opens, revealing dispute.

A twisted pale phantom makes prints on the ground,
Leaves crunch solemnly underfoot,
His robes seep crimson and he makes no sound,
His mind is open but his lips are shut.

The horse-keeper sighs and lowers his head,
He feels the silence, the pain, the strain,
Everyone in that carriage would be long dead,
And his sire was out on the hunt again.