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The Scarecrow
Amidst the fine feetle of veggies in the garden of truth
Stands a monstrous scarecrow.
Of a fungoid parched face and a half baked gaze.
Of shrunken smoked sockets and drunken knocked eyeballs.
Bulged cheekbones force the halloween smile
While the amateurish wrought neck holds the somewhat ogrish skull.
A thin narrowing stream of a sparrow's yellowing cream
Tinges it's elvan nose to the apex.
Pepper red vitriol burns in the dunes of the coarse skin
And four daggerlike claws clinch at the gliding inches of the sisal woven arms.
Crickets and roaches cohabit in the meshes of the morbid hobbit charvet shirt.
The eroded black ribbons travelling along the sleets of the pirate jacket
Compliment the dotted woolen twines of hair flowing down the bald scalp
Then...
Beyond the spread of the evenly scaped acres of the khaki greens
Lives a dearth among apes
That's strips down their velvet raiment of fur
And pulls to skin their horrid skeleton.
Dry bones litter the vale and life faces the wink of hell.
Yet the flora of truth remains unturned, untouched, unchanged
A death from a dearth seems painless
Than the drilling wreath of the scarecrow's claws to the turbine of breath
Sandwiched in the succulent greens of the garden of truth
Stands a scarecrow ladened with less ruth, wrath full
A fabricated beast called STEREOTYPE
Copyright ©
Kunda Chamatete
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