Woman with the Ugly Shoes

These ugly shoes I wear
are for the feet turned to zombies,
neither alive nor dead,
carrying a body out of sorts
shape-shifting into a vampire
sucking the blood at dark,
so during the day,
ghosts, goblins, psychos
can crack through the shadows
of this insane asylum, my torso,
and scrape against the skin,
shrunken and wrinkled,
as the sun is torn from my eyes
and I've lost my way to my tomb.
With innards gone, embalmed for burial
plus a damp coffin, I imagine
and squirm, icy worms sticking
to my legs, neck, chin,
and the heart, the creepy babysitter,
keeps ticking, ticking, ticking,
as the demons of death ascend,
waiting for an isolated hour
to bring down their hatchets
at the woman wobbling
on ugly shoes.