The Witch of the Northern Line

I'm standing on a platform, on the northern line,
It's busy and it's crowded, but at least the trains on time,
The bodies thick around me, waiting for their ride,
The wash of human traffic, rushing like a tide.

We stand there waiting, gollum-like, staring at the ads,
Of all the latest trends and tech, of all the modern fads,
When suddenly, I feel a chill, unlike the normal kind,
No real breeze upon my skin, just whispers in my mind.

I sense that some thing's close to me, right behind my back,
And now I want that train to come rushing down the track,
But as I wait I find myself trying not to glance,
To look at what's behind me, with it's ghostly stance.

I just can't help be drawn to look, to see what's standing there,
And as I turn I fall within the creatures monstrous stare,
For stood beside me, tall and lean, a woman dressed in black,
An image of a myth from time, in horror I pulled back.

Her skin was green, her nose was hooked, her face was pale and thin,
Her fingers long, with purple tongue, a wart upon her chin,
She wore a hanging, hooded cloak, it''s colour dark as coal,
If eyes are windows, deep inside, she had a bloodshot soul.

Silence fell upon us, I stood there deep in shock,
All around me stood so blindly, like a herded flock,
For they just couldn't see her, this show was just all mine,
her twisted, wicked, crooked face, with me 'till end of time.

And that was when she gave me that terrifying smile,
As if to say, your mine one day, but I'll have to wait a while,
And then she turned and floated off, past the mortal blind,
For only I would ever see The Witch of the Northern Line.