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Waiting To Be Headless

In ancient cities and times,
kings, rulers and their often-faceless consorts,
were exalted in marble statuary,
yet
so much of those effigies
now remain headless.

Those bygone exalted figures
have lost their heads,
(or occasionally the odd arm).
I ask myself,
where did all their heads go?

Were they deemed to be sculptured flowers,
doomed to be dead headed like roses,
by stone-faced gardeners?

The beheaded, the headless,
litter history,
it makes me want to check my own neck,
to confirm my often weak-headed state.

Heads are easy targets,
you strike a light in the dark
then some petty tyrant takes offence
and poof,
there goes your head.

Genghis Khan played polo
with human heads.
If we were born
with a dotted line around our necks
we might put two and two together,
we might be better prepared,
for being booted around
like footballs.

If I had been clearly told
to always keep my head up my ass,
I might not have had this death wish,
to write weird poetry.

Copyright © Eric Ashford

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