The silent stranger walks the night
the only sound, his cane.
The tapping draws me as I write,
and through the windowpane
I glance to see him walking by.
He stops and meets my eye.
We stare a moment, just us two,
us two in all the world
awake when all the town's asleep,
asleep once night's unfurled.
What business kept, he kept himself,
I know not why he walks,
though I suspect he's like myself;
his face, that look, it talks.
Undead, the dreamless artist's soul
breaks out from dark Sheol.
He's on his way, I grab my pen.
My pen, into dark ink,
is ready now to write the words—
the words drawn from death's brink.
Tale Told 