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 Aho 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.