In shadowed woods, where myths take form,
There dwells a man who wears a horn.

The mask he wears, far more than art,
A relic used in rites of heart.

Its smoky haze a fearsome sight,
A waking dream and endless night.

Within the woods, he’s god and ghost,
A haunting figure, feared the most.

His visage channels primal dread,
A totem for the living, dead.

Unspoken rites in darkness spun,
A cipher between moon and sun.

An eerie hymn to nature’s scheme,
A living, breathing, fearsome dream.