Stagnant Scarecrow

Surrounded by wheat maybe shadowed by pines. Silence is your lonesome ties. All alone on top of that hill your wood board a crutch drawing black birds craving your perch. Harassed by scorched sun in summer freezer burnt by the bitter wind known as winter's accomplice. Stitched lips render you helpless triangled hues take in reoccuring lines upon this old map. Identical auromas no scent of new. What about rain and the morning dew? It appears the straw you bleed soaks. Hung up high and dry your only onlookers that of scavengers. Who says misery doesn't like company? An exile you may be. Oh on that hill you stand willing to let others have the spoils.