That house is "Haunted" many did say,
Not really a "Believer", I bought it anyway.
The place was abandoned and was very old,
Nothing was in good shape, that's why it was sold.
I'll finally be the artist that everyone tells me I am,
This house, a gallery and stage and I'll be "The Man".
What will I call it? Something simple, no strain.
How about a "Haunted House", simple and plain?
That is what it is, no use trying to hide it,
I'll live here, cohabitate any spirits? I can abide it.

So it started now eighteen years ago
Some unorthodox choices creating a different way to go
Maybe I've always been "Haunted" and it wasn't this house,
Artistic inspiration? From a morning whisper,..from a mouse?
Nobody there that I could see, great creative ideas,
Mine to utilyze for free?
Work on them all day, now it's all week,
Not a "normal" thing, but then, I'm always considered a "Freak"
I seem to have something that sustains me
Even after the long hours should have drained me
Producing items like no one has ever seen
Always remembering to incorporate some humor,polished to a mental sheen?
Well, sometimes. Sometimes it happens, then on to something new
Perpetually perpetulating finding out what my hands can do.

She is down there, you know.
Hidden in that northeast corner
When she chooses to appear
Is she seeking a mourner?
Maybe those dolomite rocks hold some iota of her soul
Or is a body behind those rocks, in the earth like a mole?
Many groups of my patrons have seen her there
And most thought she was an "Effect", gave her no care.
Then one night she got upstairs where she had never been
At least not as a spirit ever since 1920-"When"?
After all of these years and now she's roaming the whole place?
Can anyone stay here if a ghostly woman is in your face?
What changed? What caused this? What could it be?
The simple answer might have a lot to do with me.
My guests seek the thrill of the bad-dream bed
They follow my instructions, feet-first, not "head"
This device is a teeter-totter, sometimes it's thrill ellicts "water"
In two seconds time they travel covering many feet
A short duration, but their ride is complete.
From second floor to subterraineon in the blink of an eye
For the thrill-seekers, I am their guy.
I wrap people in blankets because of friction from this quick trip
I protect their clothes and skin from a tear or nasty rip
And then when it's over and they drive home
I have to carry these many blankets back upstairs, usually alone
I neatly fold them, stack them up, sometimes wrapping the bunch
With the last one, making it easier to lug up
Up 43 stairs across a couple of rooms, through five doorways
The load can be heavy, bulky, a struggle, up from those "tombs"
The psychic says the body count is more than three
I'm ambitious but not foolhardy, no picking wall-rocks for me!
And then an answer found me (Whisper or imagination?)
Concerning the possibility of this "Lady-In-White's" migration
As I carried my bundle up from below
What if I'd glanced sideways in a mirror
Anticipation, fear to grow
This no "sideways" rather straight-on FEAR!
As my bundle was heavy enough to be a woman's body
It was shaped sufficiently, smooth, round and knobby
Would that reflective glass
Have shown me the face of a beautiful Lass?
Or the grim reminder of decay
That we hide and bury from the light of day?
Did I unknowing carry her up from the depths?
Toting her body all the way up those 43 steps
Then gently lay her down
Next to the mask of the "Killer Clown"?
My mind does begin to race as I anticipate which face
I may have found reflected from that mirror
Because I still have a long sentence here
How long could it be?
Can you say, "Eternity"?

"My Insanity is well-respected, until they wiggle free and become a stringer for a tabloid"