Your father’s ghost is clumsy, sitting at sofas and startling Mother to white.
Leaving her distressed near his portraits.
Tracing his image with her tears,
Clouds of her drunk breathes on the glasses.
Your Father’s ghost is clumsy.
Playing the old piano in weak chords.
A cacophony of grief, immortal tears washing the night, floating, brooding.
Stealing your sleep with the unholiness of guilt.
The loss of a loved one that haunts.
Today, you will paint the walls to drown his scent and memories of his endless colours.
He will have to go.
Tomorrow, you will break his memories into pieces, vignettes, fragments.
Fling them to the river that flows north, watch them settle, dissolve to nothing.
Wash his painting to grey and let the water bleed a little.
Let it carry the stories of the men that clubbed him to a crumple.
And left Mother a broken city.
But your Father’s ghost will still return.
Reeking of sadness, cold apologies of leaving too early.
It will lie next to Mother on her forlorn bed of grey.
She will turn and scream into darkness, fear engulfing her mind.
I welcome you to a horror movie 😂