A quiet blaze.
White sun
in black space.
Casting blistering beams asea.
Bleeding heat for terrestrial
specks unseen –
invisible glitters
which by night catch day,
stash the light
and reflect privately.
With each fiery ray
hazily absorbed,
sinks lower, colder
this body celestial.
Hungry
for microscopic warmth.

I look forward to a garden,
that shared, elusive kind.
But today resigned am I
to planting seeds
with bouquets in mind.

Placed in the sun and watered;
affectionately tended to.
Primed for filicide
my sons and daughters.
’Tis the hand that cuts them,
the hand by which they grew.

To nurture gorgeous corpses:
a grisly waste of time?
No more than placing
daisies in a vase
in order to delay decaying.

An unnatural arrangement
for which I hold the guilt.
When holding fast to doubts,
nothing surer than the wilt.

Unsettled is the one who trods
itinerant as vagrants,
who stops to smell the roses
‘cause they’re desperate for the fragrance.

Peddler of petals,
with whom the bloom is doomed fate,
dares to give you flowers
on our expiration date.

Sulking home alone
like Culkin fighting Pesci in.
Walking down the block
was the Hessian equestrian
Divorced from his horse
was this corpse
that was sentient.
This is the tale
of the Headless Pedestrian.

Just another day out,
dogging for his noggin.
Winter crept in,
and it had the air fogging.
Curb was obscured.
He alighted for a lead,
But his steed got towed,
parked too long in the green.

Sans whip,
antics
paled rather vapid.
Ambling ‘round town
definitely wasn’t fastest.
Sprint stretched out
to a marathon pageant.
As if decapitation
wasn’t already tragic.

Achy, blistered, drawn feet.
Turning down wrong streets.
What’s it gonna take
for a ghoul to catch a break?
Besides tripping neckfirst
over cracks in the concrete.

Crosswalk.
Countdown.
Hand flashing.
He can make it,
but he’s gonna have to dash it.
As the headless ghost
bolted ‘cross frantic,
Passersby fled
into oncoming traffic.

Misfortune
coursing
wherever he tours in.
Unintended products
of a lack of core supporting.
Tapped a rando on the arm;
wasn’t meaning any harm.
Simply looking for directions
but was greeted with alarm.

Terror-stricken victims
could’ve brought the horror to an end.
No heads requested,
just an extra couple hands to lend.
‘Cause it can often take
more than a man to mend.
And everyone’s
got wounds
that they’re sporting.

Walk in his boots; then
maybe they would see his pain.
But fearful gazes froze
into self-absorption.
Never saw a body,
just the absence
of the phantom’s face.
Was Perseus a hero if
he failed to save the Gorgon?

Another day passed,
Growing even more alone.
The headless headed home
Once again without a dome.
Pillow lying on the bed
Pristine and unimpressed.
Until they found their heads,
Sleepy Hollow wouldn’t rest.

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