Wings in the Dark

In the shadowed hills of Point Pleasant town,

Where the fog rolls thick as the sun goes down,

A pair of eyes like crimson flame,

The creature stirs, whispering its name.

With wings as wide as the midnight sky,

A harbinger that watches as the stars die.

A warning sent, a cryptic mark,

The silent terror in the dark.

Oh, Mothman, what do you see?

Prophecies of calamity?

A fleeting shape, a chilling glare,

A watcher bound to a world of despair.

The Silver Bridge swayed in the breeze,

And Mothman’s shadow haunted the trees.

A fleeting glimpse, a phantom cry,

A warning lost as the years go by.

Was he savior or spectral foe?

A riddle shrouded in what we don’t know.

A fleeting myth, or truth untold,

A tale that lingers, forever cold.

Oh, Mothman, what do you see?

Prophecies of calamity?

A fleeting shape, a chilling glare,

A watcher bound to a world of despair.

They call him demon, they call him ghost,

A traveler on the edge of the coast.

Eyes that pierce the veil of fate,

A warning spoken far too late.

Some say he flies to warn the damned,

Others fear the doom he commands.

But in his cry, a question rings:

What price we pay for what he brings?

Oh, Mothman, what do you see?

Prophecies of calamity?

A fleeting shape, a chilling glare,

A watcher bound to a world of despair.

So when the night grows cold and still,

And whispers echo across the hill,

Beware the eyes that burn so red,

For Mothman watches the path ahead.