A decrepit scarecrow reminiscently stands,
Pensive of forsaken sweat, by a farmer's hands.
Windswept arms conduct as wind chimes toll,
As if to repossess his straw callous winds stole.
Likewise a farmhouse stood in the wheat field,
With broken shutters and paint peeled.
Aimless among the rows of parched bowing gold,
Screen door banging, a respite from the cold.
A genial candle flickers behind aged sheers,
Rolling thunder flashes, bloated with unshed tears.
Obtuse eyes eerily wink from scintillating light,
Self-preservation weary of the fire in the night.
Shadows wistfully waltz on the porch,
Avoiding detection from the candle's scorch.
Frigid wind seeps through weathered panes,
Beckoning a soaking with overdue rains.
Cracks and creaks shutter’s mourn,
A tribute to the great depression's scorn.
The man of straw remembers the story,
When better times flourished in fields of glory.
Aspirations descend like the harshness outside
Crestfallen like the grain farmer's pride.
Remnants in the corners of a sawdust mind,
Semblance like wear and tear left behind.
Muted prayer to long dead patron saints,
stitched lips silence fruitless complaints.
Pursuant for redemption in a forgotten field,
Which heaven nor hell will nevermore yield.
Elements claim the fragments in the gales,
Adrift in time like lamented whinging fairy tales.
To recapture the illusion, fleeting magic slips,
Through rheumatic hands and chafed fingertips.
The barn shunned with shameful disrepair,
Delusions of grandeur a farmer can no longer bear.
Abandoned buildings like crumbled self-esteem,
Echoing between nightmares and a lost dream.