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~