Spawned by the dark heart of the wood,
During the time of the alien world.
I am a specter,
Drifting from behind tree to tree,
Hunting the creatures of the day.
I am the wood wraith.
To some I am just a passing breeze,
A whisp of wind that rustles leaves.
To others I am their darkest fears,
A frightful presence ever looming.
I wonder who is right.
I may very well be just a shadow that will be gone tomorrow,
Or I might be an incarnation of pure fear.
One thing is clear, though,
I am not like any of you.