Fiend

In the sable night's grim shroud,
A fiend stalks the lonely moor,
His breath a chill, his eyes like coal,
He prowls where wary folk keep their door.

With cloven hooves and sulphur‑stained hide,
He laughs in thunder's low refrain,
A whisper rides the restless wind,
A promise of torment and pain.

Yet even fiends know mercy's taste,
When dawn's pale gold begins to bleed,
For in the hush of waking light,
They yearn for the peace they cannot keep.