Fleeting picture

I’m just a fleeting picture.
To be hung along a wooden corridor
of an old and aching villa
strained by a love gone sour
a place where memories go
to gather cobwebs and to hide
from the places you want to spend
more time in.

A dad who made too many mistakes.
Too many thoughtless errors.
Too much of no doubt much you never needed
and always off
somewhere else
in thought and in body, led unquestioningly
by the monkey mind.

Perhaps I’m just a dad that shouldn’t be.
An empty
vacuous
Victorian-esque black and white memory
for an equally monotone and lonely wall
erected only to display
the things we wish to forget.