The many headed beast

It had heads many I saw, 

Two three and four
But one could never have been sure.

Some heads I got to meet
The others grew in peace
Some heads I did get to know
The others could barely grow.
Each decided to leave me a gift,
A string of pearls or maybe a rib.

Each head I encountered in time
Sometimes one I would meet
At-times two-three together would treat,
There was no greed I hope,
Just curiosity and some burning rope.
Each came to leave a mark
None was less sharper than the last.

The first came to teach me peace
Some laughter, explicitly for me.
Goodbyes are for sure forlorn,
So it left not a note from a song.
But a long list of possibilities 

To write a hymn on my own.

The second which came before the third,
Or maybe after for I can't be sure:
Taught patience with peace, and some more.
It left the mindfulness of minutes
Rented to many hours by me.
It spoke of continuity and time,
Stable forms and shrines,
Movements and songs which go on and on.

The third which came before the second,
Or maybe after for I can't be sure:
Came with a basket of fries and jam
Each with a new sense of plan.
It left a strange flavour behind,
For it never left me blind.
It decided to leave a simple note
Right under my wide open door.
It finally left by never leaving
And it taught me about dreaming.

The fourth is where I am losing count
For the heads now I speak of,
I care not to recall a great amount.
One I know left behind contagious laughter.
The other some form of compliance in me.
Yet another a ghost of a sad sad smile.
But one I care to remember
Let's call it the seventh, not more.
It left the law of force in mind.
The head I chose to slice,
Left myself in pieces too.
The force I thought was blunt,
Left wedges deep in the surface blue.

And then there was head number eight may I say,
For four-five-six I chose to ignore,
Whose fate was sealed the day it bloomed.
How did the giant live so long,
With one head consuming the last.
I remember watching as a new head grew,
The pain I imagined was maybe true.
So back to eight shall we move,
It was the youngest of the crowd.
It was maybe borne with its shroud.
Yet not sad it felt and left me a grin,
For it taught me quality of conversation.

Before it left, the ninth had already grown,
It was now taking place on the giant's collar bone.
Poised on a throne this one had style,
And it told me it would not leave anything behind.
It hasn't left much I would like to say,
But generosity and kindness
Are hard to weigh.
It hasn't left yet so I wouldn't know,
But head number nine loves to put up a show,
It often leaves a trail of breadcrumbs behind.
As Hansel once did, It too believes
Retraced footsteps will help it lead
This mighty giant homeward in peace.