if asked, she—-
the woman without a head—-
might have responded
with intoned brevity:
« cacophony »
leaving her interrogator
either quite satisfied or
(more likely) edgy and wanting,
therefore a passing observer might
have employed quickened steps
might have averted a glance
indeed full face to hide
an inevitable smirk,
for some caught by fate
dead centre amid events
having nothing to do with them
do often enjoy the
exchanges between others,
especially if spiced with dynamics of peril.
All is conjecture though,
isn’t it, when an exchange
is no exchange at all,
when a question rises yet
remains unuttered except within
an inquisitor’s mind.
Potential answers flit and bang off walls
as bewildered synapses
there may be temporary destabilization
fear or disgust.
For one of courage though,
with curiosity or the patience to lean in,
there may be a flooding
observation—even an epiphany—light
enough to see, though just a sprite,
no longer a head
something else emerging
from unknown seed
something bold and green and lithe
reaching beyond the prison of skulls
having discarded the heavy robes
collected in the rotting carts of Time
answering to none but clarity,
the melody of eternal silence
a new formula for life~
