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.
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