At the witching hour
In the dead of night
Who will dare to bear the torch of hope.
And knock at death’s door.
Dread stains the silent night
And stars grow distant
For dark things are coming,
Things that loathe the light.
The ancient prophecy foretells;
On hallow’s Eve,
In a year of death and disease,
One must venture,
So that many may survive.
Only one who stands to lose the most,
Can wield the ancient flames of hope,
And seal the demon doors of death.
All she had was him,
One thing, that was everything
Alone in a world where loved ones cocooned
And the lonely could find no open doors.
The flame of hope would seek her that night
And her lowly reckless love,
Unseen and unmatched,
Would be the salvation of all.
Love is not weighed in quantity,
but in quality.