Father is a small house

 I am the mover
You are a place
A small manor
a roundhouse
Next to a funeral home

I came to visit you there
Your face was the wall
Told me to be happy
Told me to keep my head up

You are the place
You are the furniture
You are gone
replaced by time and new people
Sinking into the woodwork

I saw your face in the photo
but you are the house itself
Silent and unmoving
Your smile is invisible
But i can see it

Father how long have been dead
And You´ve become a small house old lad
Rather black and white a silhoutte of a place
No eyes nor mouth
Just thick into the walls

Hovering in the corridor air
like a net catching human vibration