The Old Hag

In the morning all were gone -
The finger-marks upon the door,
the kettle that never boiled,
the ill-fitting boots that were poorly
tied.
Was it yesterday?
Those little things, faint, far and clear,
interrupt once again.
The marinated salmon ready for the oven,
the wine unopened, the glasses lying in
wait. The spotted mirror that reflects the
whole room.
Wrinkled fingers examine a portrait upon a
wall, whispering the phrases of a spell so low
so as not to draw attention; a special rapport
with a realm beyond human senses.
Shadows surface through awakening,
saturating the air with claw marks so numerous
you could see the dusty trails. Demons silhouette
against the night.
A cascade of stars glem far above the cracked
window panes, sending fragments of broken
light cascading through hallways that lead into
other rooms.
Evil glances toward a narrow corridor where a door
hangs open several inches off its hinges, the empty
bed, unkept, plagued by its sunless existence, among
the splinter of breaking wood.
The old hag smiles, dissipating in air, the wind
carrying her stench. The blackness of her garments
stretched out, touching earth, decending upon her
victim, curled up in a ball, sound asleep,
against the base of an old oak tree

Theresa likes to write about matters of self-inflection and personal experiences. She likes to write about matters of an out-of body, out-of-mind state, as well as subjects of an idyllic, pagan nature and the occult. Theresa writes horror, as well as concrete gritty and realistic dramas. Theresa is said to be witch and a poet. (within the horror writing community).

Find more by Theresa C. Gaynord in the Author Index.

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