Headless Cockroach
It walks as if tomorrow still exists,
legs remembering a map the mind no longer reads.
Habit pulls the body forward,
old instructions echoing in empty corridors.
There is motion without meaning,
industry without direction,
a faithful rhythm learned long ago
now cut off from command.
It does not know it is finished.
It eats no purpose, drinks no future,
yet it moves,
busy with the muscle-memory of survival.
Time becomes a quiet judge.
What once was guidance is absent,
and strength leaks away,
through neglect.
Momentum can imitate life,
routine can masquerade as calling,
and movement can deceive the watcher.
Soon, stillness arrives
as consequence.
A system cannot endure
when severed from its source.
So walks the parable among us:
people, plans, and nations
continuing on reflex,
long after vision has been removed.
Life must stay connected
to what gives it direction,
or it will keep moving
until there is no strength left
to move at all.
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