Awoken under onset of winter,
Walking loudly to our dissonant twitter.
Be us one, be us many, our pace shall not yield,
Lest the break of the dawn arrive hither.
We are who walk without reason or rhyme,
Without purpose or fear, to the funeral's chime.
We are children of Death, and continue to be,
From dusk till dawn of ages, of time;
We are who thrive on your fear and regret.
Paranoia and loss and anxiety whet
Appetitious thoughts of what's promised to come
At the moment your dear summer's set.
We are the many and we are the one.
We are killer incarnate, what warmth-seekers shun.
We are brokers of fright, but don't misunderstand;
What we do, we do only for fun!
We are not evil and we are not good.
We do only as Death has commanded we should.
We are its children, residents of the Pale,
Acting only as residents would.
We've none the fears that bind living men so,
For a Pale-walker's kin are your objects of woe.
Befrienders of enders, caretakers of ache...
For if one's a Pale-walker, we'd know.
We have no doubt whether one is our own.
There was never such thing as a pale one unknown.
And yet, brazen and foolish, the living charade,
Unaware of the seeds that they've sown...
We laugh at those who sleep still through midnight,
And we laugh at those fearful, denying their fright.
All foolhardy fledglings taking light of our world
Shall rue the night their wings refuse flight.
There are none born Pale-walkers as we,
But there's no great reward without greater a fee.
We are children of Death, and if such is your rite,
You yourself may a pale one be.
We are the shadows that haunt every dream,
And the conscience that tells you all's not as they seem.
We are one, we are all, and despite what is said,
We're the chosen few the Fates redeem.
We are the primal; the soulful, in part,
And no walker of day shares our glorious art.
Let them bask in their light, in their warmth... for you see,
It is we, the more human at heart.