Haunted House

In the haunted house 
Dead are living and living are not-quite-dead 
And each day is a death of the soul. 
In the haunted house 
Air shatters against the lungs 
And the water runs down into the basement 
And dissolves all inside. 
There is memory of the dead 
And the death of the memory is desired 
But desire is itself expropriated 
And the knife cuts into the soul. 
All day long the dead haunt the house 
And the living 
Who should by any standard be dead 
Forges on and delights all who live 
With her beauty and tenderness and deliquescence. 
Come to me haunting beauty 
And let us haunt together the house 
In which is imprisoned humanity 
And all are made ghosts. 
We that are seen as the shadow 
Are most able to live with the shadows 
And know their worlds. 
Let us then lead the shadows 
Out the cave 
And into sunlight. 
In the haunted house 
Death and life merge into one 
And intensity of the absolute 
That is the ongoing battle of life and death 
Startles all things into attained reality. 
And when I discern 
The haunted house 
That is your mind 
Where death and tragedy scream at you 
In viciousness and deceit 
And shadows play on the walls to confound you 
But you remain life embodied 
Giving, tender, warm, brilliant, principled, strong 
And ethereally majestic, 
I would rather be torn to pieces 
And made a ghost 
Than let the ghosts crowd you out of life. 
So live my sweet, and the shadows will go their way 
When you 
As life's resplendent embodiment 
Become transparent as diamond 
And cast no shadow as you walk.  

Ilya Shambat 
https://sites.google.com/site/ibshambatpoetry