Her eyes are sunken into her face
her heart sunken into her stomach
a cauldron in her memories boils over
frothing savagely when watched
Shadows cast her brew in a sinister dark
but it is only the shadows' premise

an illusion cast only by our flickering light
Her potion is a bitter and benign
but its savor of tears scalds when tasted
caustically peeling her ashen layers

till her loneliness shines through the cracks

A misplaced tome on a high shelf
she is buried premature in histories
invisibly wilting to become one
She is folklore and rumors
a witches tale to caution young girls
She haunts her den in exile
and her cackling roils the night
drawn from the sobs of her sorrow
and the echoes on her barren walls.