The Head Collector
With a blade in one hand and a spade in the other,
The man goes to work,
Bodies on the ground,
the living soon to be found,
When the blade meets necks,
and the heads roll.
Collecting the head he takes care,
For tradition he cannot spare,
With fresh water he bathes,
In the sun he slaves,
To honor the valiant dead,
For he knows the way,
as his father before him,
What is the human body,
Filled with waste and want,
But the head,
Even dead,
Has more spirit than a skin of filth,
so with respect in his heart he continues to work,
Respecting the dead,
Cleansing the heads,
So that the warriors are remembered.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
