Pilgrims of the Scaffold

All my selves are standing in line,

Each waiting to behead the next,

And staring only at his nape,
There to hold up his head:
For all the rest behind to see,

And throw it upon the pile,

Then to bow down on the block,

To be beheaded himself in turn.

We stumble onwards yet another step

To hear the thudding a little closer:

The rhythm to our eternal march,

As pilgrims t'wards the scaffold.

Suffering lives in halls of mirrors,

Multiplied with each reflection.