Ilya Shambat Poet Iambic Pentameter

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 kindness.

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.

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