I owe them this

They took my courage and gave me back a head.
They tried pills, patches and potions; needles, bottles
and kind words. They resorted to wipe boards and knives.

They took my hands often but gave me back the severed head.
The haunt of my pain's hologram is now mine to own.

I tried wrapping it in my lover's blanket, burying it under
a tsunami of retail. I flew away in a wig and jolly mask but
it hung its head over the pages of my fat book. I feel the silent
night caller's slow drip of ice on closed lids, the burn of
the nostril's flare.

They tried, gave of their best, did all they could but were left with this mournful carving that belongs to me, they could not give it to another. I must bear the weight of impending mortality.
I owe them this.