It's The Ghosts Poem by Armadillo Poet

What whispers
Around corners,
Through closed doors,
Warding off furniture
In a cluttered Mausoleum?

Who moans in your bed
When your lashes-stretched wide
Pulling every strand of gossamer
From the ceiling corners into them-
Assure your heart's panting
That the stirring body beside you
Isn't dead?

And what ignites the cats' eyes
When in sparse moments
They seem dread-filled
Staring down a presence-less hallway?

It's the ghosts-
Always among the living,
Failing to forget,
Dreaming passionately,
But living coldly-
Tickling the spine
And the whiskers
The same.