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