After Guardian’s My Stranger by Maria Taylor

        

   

      All about the house, very ancient and dilapidated

      My memory steeped , leaking walls, and cracked cements

       The inmates, whereabouts still to be known;

      I cling to him  steadfast, my dad, my caretaker,

      Now hanging on the photo, I adore  and adhere to.    

      A t times, I wonder, where  are those souls, hanging around

      was my father an illusion or a real entity hanging around

      My mind re calls the care, the play, the cheer

      All through talks of imaginations of inmates,

       Again all illusion a nightmare; question remains,

       The gardener in him, the bill payments made

       Revealed how responsible  he was, yet, I never

      Knew  where is he hiding, behind the plasters of the wall?

       What I could see  is only a void, a void filling so much

        for us all,  how long this  misconceived euphoria, this puzzle

        God alone knows.