Ghosted

My thing for Morticia Addams,

as played by Carolyn Jones,

of the raven-black hair, almond eyes

deep as Transylvanian chasms,

snow-white skin, porcelain cheekbones,

lips like poisonous berries

and figure seductive as sin,

has led me to some very dark places—

ignoring all warnings, spellbound,

down candlelit corridors deep within

spooky Victorian houses

guarded by ghoul, gargoyle, hellhound,

beneath ancient ancestors’ portraits

whose eyes seem to follow me, past

suits of armour, stuffed beasts

all attention, as if all our fates

hung in the balance, aghast

at the bat-storm my steps have unleashed

below in the basement laboratory

(where Fester is festering, close

to perfecting a bloody concoction

that could empty a crypt, crematory,

every grave in a graveyard, a dose

that would conjure up all kinds of demon)—

and brought me at last face to face

with my own worst fear, in a mirror,

in a room— concealed until now

behind a cobwebbed, old bookcase—

where I stand and stare, in pure horror,

at myself: alone, gaunt, ghost-like somehow.