There it sat and rested, a dead head inside a jar. 

So sweet and so bested, to the envy of all afar. 

I knew not her name or the buyer you see, 

just some money under the table and in the mail I did greet, 

the ode to my perfection, my collection was now complete.

Quite a bunch of oddities I beheld in my home. 

It stacked so high and so wide, I barely had room to roam. 

But oh, did I hide, these many treasures of least desire

to grace my halls and hang from my walls on wires of crooked nails and failing spires. 

Should one dare to enter, I dare not think thoughts, 

of what they might say or react to my horrid lots. 

Would they become deplore and run fleeting out the door, 

never to hear from them again, never ever more? 

Well, forget them, those wasted friends, so shallow and filled with strife, 

to not understand or even pretend the grand illusion that is my life.

Now I have me a friend, one who will always contend, 

and listen to me when I speak, be so humble and so meek. 

This head, this floating head, 

in some liquid long since bled. 

A welcome addition to my ambition, 

this head, this floating head.

Carefully I carried it beyond the thresholds of my many rooms. 

To find the perfect place for it amongst the clutter, the utter volume of my gloom. 

Then finally I find, no place better in mind, 

than on the shelf across from my bed, 

so sit the jar, so sit the head.

In yellow light it bathed a radiant dome of clear glass, 

underwent a tantalizing transformation as it danced on top the bodiless lass. 

The hair a speckled blonde, the cheeks a pickled peach, 

seemed to respond, to correspond with each syllable of my speech.

"You're beautiful," I whispered. My voice excited and low. 

I wanted to kiss her and let her know, 

that I would love her and treasure her so, till death do I part, till death do I go. 

But alas, she was just a floating head, no life in her closed eyes, 

just a fair and familiar maiden, who's face I'd come to idealize. 

I admit it seemed a tad bit strange as I stared into the jar, 

this warped face felt almost recognizable and extremely bizarre.

In some dankly dark elegance I discovered a faint smile. 

My face had not seen such a trick in a long long while. 

I pressed my lips to the jar and planted a little kiss. 

My unnamed maiden bobbed inside not far from my loving bliss. 

I was so happy, a feeling I could not convey, 

my delightfully disturbing madonna had made my dreary day.

Now it was time to sleep and drift off to my bed. 

I said goodnight, and sleep tight, to my prize, 

my floating head.

To dreams I fell, an enticement of the mind, 

led me, fed me to temptation and crime. 

At first it appeared a song, a tune of angelic beats, 

then like a thumping and a stamping, it changed to charging feet. 

My bed shook and lifted, in the darkness it shifted, 

as though a demon had scripted it to move on its own. 

I clinched my fists and wrapped the sheet around my wrists. 

I sat up and screamed, only to once again realize it was but a dream.

My chest it heaved, the sweat it grieved

for it was hard to breathe due to those dreams I perceived. 

I sat in a crouch looking all about, 

feeling something was there in the dark waiting to jump out. 

But oh, it was nothing but my floating head,

underneath the lamp light glowing instead. 

Like a nightlight of care, I breathed gently the air

until I looked again and grew incredibly and suddenly grim. 

For this time I swore something was different than before.

The frown it once held had now been replaced, 

as a faint smile grew calmly on its face.

I jumped from my bed and rushed to the head

studying the smirk it had gently jerked. 

Yet when I arrived and moved up close, 

the face was unchanged. "Perhaps it's a ghost." 

I whispered and wondered deeply to myself, 

as I watched anticipating anything from the head on the shelf. 

"Did I not see some wicked illusion? Or could the dark had created this unkind confusion?"

I hurriedly glided back to my bed and in fear I lifted the covers over my head.

Again I sensed the remarkable sleep, pull me, tool me to my comfort, to my keep.

I saw a maiden standing by the foot of my bed, 

yet in this dream she was lacking a head. 

The dress was white, a bride to be, 

her arms by her side, and on her finger a ring. 

Then formed a voice hard to understand, 

broke from the silence like the baa of a lamb.

"Can you hear me?" I heard it said. 

"I'm speaking to you from beyond the dead. 

You are near me. Fear me. 

Can you hear me talking, inside your head?"

I peeked past the safety of my covers, 

expecting to see this ghostly other. 

But nothing stood at the foot of my bed, 

only sat the jar, only sat the head.

I glanced once more, at this grisly piece,

and to my horror the mouth opened to show its teeth. 

I heard it scream, a fantastic cry, 

like the sound one makes when one dies. 

I twisted to the edge, fearful to leave my bed, 

as I watched the mouth close shut and grow silent this head. 

By now I could not rest, for it invaded my senses, 

this unwarranted guest who had left me defenseless.

"Why do you torment me?" I called out. 

"Are you alive, or dead, or a devil's scout?" 

The head remained still as though again it seemed, 

all an illusion, an intrusion in my dreams.

My sanity was dwindling; my insanity was kindling. 

Something within me was winning and it frightened me so.

"Back these thoughts, this wretched disease, release my mind, put me at ease!" 

I writhed and yanked and shook the sheets. 

I stuttered, I muttered, I kicked high with my feet. 

And each time I glanced across my bed, 

the eyes it blinked from the jar, from the head.

In a rage I leapt to the jar, ripping it from its place, 

flinging it far, swinging its tar, bashing and crashing across its face. 

Liquid splashed the walls and drenched my obsessions 

landing amongst the possessions, the transgressions of my past. 

The head rolled and it bumped till it came to a thump, 

at rump of my bed with the stump of its head.

I watched its eyes open and look about, 

fearing the head would suddenly shout. 

But instead it did glance,

with its face in a trance, 

to the photo it lead just beneath my bed, 

locking its eyes, dead... 

on the spot.

I paused for a moment to catch my breath 

staring idly into the eyes of death. 

With each tense muscle I moved to my mate, 

the floorboards bending breaking beneath my weight. 

As I bent down to see, what these dead eyes had intrusted to me. 

I saw them follow; I felt their sorrow pressing, 

resting on me heavily. 

So I lifted this photo and turned it in my hands. 

It was the one shred of guilt I had left in the land. 

And there I had forgotten and left it rotting, 

underneath my incursion, in a pitiful diversion, 

the unyielding perversion of my miserable soul. 

Torn from me so quick. No lies could have left my lips, 

but this trick, this dastardly wit as it fell from my grip.

It was a photo of my wife, so pristine on our wedding day, 

before I cared to end her life, for the money her insurance would pay. 

And so they say that love never dies, 

neither does anger, hate, or despise. 

This head, this dripping head, 

lying in a puddle just below my bed. 

It was my bride, a victim of my pride, 

to come back to me in my twisted fantasy, 

a reminder of my misdeeds, the flower in my weeds.

Stuck to watch its face forevermore, 

its blinking madness, its stuttering sadness, 

to live on and shake me to my core. 

And there it remains, 

these remains, 

on the table by my bed, 

so forever sits the jar, 

so forever sits 

the floating head.

Image credits: Pinterest (unknown artist)