In the ink of night, where shadows dance like whispers,  
Rides the Dullahan, headless, relentless.
Upon a steed as black as the void it carries.  
Eyes that are not there, see everything.
A mouth that does not speak screams silently.
For he is the herald of death,  
The unyielding messenger of the inevitable.

The road stretches endlessly under the moon’s cold gaze,  
As if the earth itself shudders at his coming.  
The Dullahan rides, a figure draped in darkness,  
Where laughter dies in the throat,  
Where hope flees like a hunted thing.  
He holds his head high, cradled like a grotesque lantern,  
Its grin wide, eyes rolling… searching
For the soul he seeks; for the life he will claim.

The air hangs heavy with the weight of his curse.
The clatter of hooves a dirge,  
An echo of finality that chills the marrow.  
Villages dare not whisper his name,  
Lest they summon his wrath;
Lest they feel the sweep of his unseen gaze.

No lock can bar his path.
No gate can halt his ride.  
For the Dullahan is unbound by the chains of the living,  
A spectre of grim purpose;
A harbinger of the end we all must meet.

And when he halts,  
When his steed rears before a trembling door,  

Silence falls like a shroud,  
And the air thickens with dread.

Yet, even as the Dullahan rides on,  
There is a flicker of something more.  
A mirror to our own mortality;
A reminder that the end is not an end,  
But merely the dark side of the moon.
A passage to the unknown.

So, listen for the hooves in the night.
Feel the chill that climbs your spine,  
And remember:  
The Dullahan rides for us all,  

One by one,  
Until the end of time.

(c)BobChristian