Poem: Headless


You look at the doll in the antique shop,
headless, well-dressed, fingers a bit creepy.
“Oh no.” you cry out,
seeing yourself.

About this poem

My wife calls me logical. In reality, I am not. Too often my feelings rule. And I am slow in processing feelings, leaving me, essentially, headless for a time.

Unlike the doll, I generally get my head back.


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