I'M Not the Scarecrow You See
My heart still holds the unused beats,
My shallow lungs long the stolen breaths,
And the bones, cloaked and masked, run empty of flesh.
The eyes that dreamt the dreams,
Are now separated from the sockets,
Like sharply detached staccato tones,
Sinking into lonely depths,
Weaving evaporated future and moments with vacant gaze.
I still stand still like the way they had hung me,
Wearing the same wreath of barbed thorns,
The skull and skeleton fastened in the trellis,
And buried in the sod that holds the blood
The blood of my chest,
That somewhere still runs raw in rivulets.
"Come lay your head on my stretched shoulders.
Listen to my melancholic memories"
I am calling to you, can you perceive?
I'm not the scarecrow you see,
It lassoes my soul. The farmer's soul.
Here I stand still echoing out my torments in mummed shrieks,
The secrets and confessions,
The complots and conspiracies of my spurious sons,
Who killed me softly to meet the hunger of affluence,
In lucid illusion of benevolence.
One day the clouds with swelled wombs will moisten my parched gullet,
The empty spaces below my feet will be nourished,
And the breeze hitting the poincianas around,
Will finally lull me to eternal sleep,
When obstreperous sins will be cleansed,
When justice will be served,
And truth will be harvested at every silence's leap.
Copyright: 1272017
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