The Ghost in the Black Dress

Dark, silent and cozy

the attic with the wooden door

white pale windows and walls

and the golden photo frame

standing like a sculpture

on the brown leather nightstand.

Creaking like an indoor gate

as I enter the midnight guest room

I hear ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo

and see stitched ghosts flying

hidden in lightening capes

as their round black pearl eyes

stare at my thin pale face.

Stop, stand and breathe

the picture of the woman now deceased

my grandma with the cat

her flashing red eyes staring at the camera

her body covered in an onyx lolita gown

and her tangled wine coloured hair in a bun.

The ghost in a black dress

facing the walls of ouija boards and swastikas

the talking godmother

now a painted tombstone by the television