He is me, yet I am not him.
Night Walker is his name.
I rule his actions, yet he does not rule mine.
His world is darkness, mine is light.
He is young and old, I am young.
He is loud, I am quiet.
He is solitary, so am I.
He runs, I run.
He laughs, I laugh.
He angers, I smile.
He roars, I say hello.
Who am I?

The Wicker Man is burning, his time is nearly done,

Let us stop with riddles.
Might you stop for a cup of tea?

The tides of time are turning, his end is nearly come,

Night Walker
White pelted, Crimson streaked.
Skull masked, empty Eyes.
Curving antlers, gold Earring.
Raven feathers, blood-red Boots.

The flames consume his skin and bone, his eyes are full of pain,

Reference:

This is his icon, it is the Empty Throne. Long ago, a King sat on it.

The Wicker Man shall die alone, yet nothing should he gain.

Music is a painting for closed eyes.
Art is music for closed ears.

Art is nothing for closed eyes.
Music is nothing for closed ears.

Poetry is poetry for closed ears and closed eyes.
That is why I write, that is why he runs.