The Hag

In the dim-lit corridors she prowls,

Claiming space where shadows dance,

A specter in our midst she scowls,

With each step,

her presence enchants.

Her touch, like icy tendrils, strays,

Tracing patterns on the walls of yore,

“I’m the true matriarch,” she says,

Her whispers echo, chilling to the core.

Across creaking floors, her form glides,

Nails of metal on ancient oak,

Through cracks and crevices, she slides,

Her intent veiled beneath a cloak.

“I'll outshine them,” her voice hisses,

Tracing lines of envy in the air,

Obsidian eyes, with malice, glistens,

As she weaves her web of despair.

She's a master of deception's art,

Masked as kin, yet her essence cold,

Her visage, a deceitful chart,

A facade of warmth, brittle and old.

But heed this eerie, solemn vow,

In shadows deep, her truth will fade,

The day will come, I avow,

When her veil of lies is cruelly unmade.

And I’ll rip off that paper face.