I Am The Scarecrow

 

I am the scarecrow.

Hanging from this wooden frame,

a skeleton of twisted wood

that creaks and groans in protest

at the ravages of age.

The ice cold rain

trickles through my straw flesh

bringing chills to every movement

and dull aches to the knotted joints.

 

I am the scarecrow.

My sack-cloth head

full of sawdust ideas

that spill from slashed

wound of a mouth.

My eyes stitched tight

in myopic views

transferred from the sharp

point of a lifelong needle.

 

I am the scarecrow.

Losing bits of me

through tattered clothes

bought an age ago,

exposing beetle scrabble heart

and worm-slither tongue

to the daily combatants

of snow and rain and sun

that weather them pale.

 

I am the scarecrow.

Standing here,

slumped upon

a wooden cross,

crucified for the sin of age.

I only have a brain

that works its traitor thoughts

into being young again,

into being vital.

 

I am the scarecrow.

In a field of summer corn

the crows are not afraid

for they’ve been here many times

and I do not have the heart

to scare them any more.

I just stand and face the sunset

and remember all the days

of squawking indignation.

 

I am the scarecrow…

am the scarecrow…

the scarecrow…

scarecrow…

crow….