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In the heart of the swamp where the shadows creep,  
Lives a witch in the mist, secrets buried deep.  
With eyes like embers and hair like night,  
She conjures her magic by flickering light.  

The cypress trees whisper her name with dread,  
As she weaves her spells on the souls long dead.  
A cauldron bubbling with herbs from the bog,  
Summoning spirits through smoke like a fog.  

Voodoo dolls stitched with threads of despair,  
Pinpricks of vengeance float heavy in air.  
With a flick of her wrist and a chant on her lips,  
She dances in circles; reality flips.  

The moon casts its glow on her altar so bare,  
Where offerings linger—bones twisted with care.  
Each shadow that passes feels caught in her snare,  
For love lost to hatred is never quite fair.  

In whispers of wind that entwine through the reeds,  
Are tales of betrayal and forgotten deeds.  
Yet beneath all the darkness lies sorrow profound,   
For even a witch wears chains tightly bound.  

So tread lightly now if you wander this way;    
Respect what’s been woven; let silence hold sway.   
For within every spell there’s a story untold—   
Of hearts that were broken and futures bought cold.   

In the depths of the swamp where enchantments abound,   
A dance with a witch may just turn you around.   
Embrace all your fears as they spiral and swirl—   
For magic still breathes in this haunted world.

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