A Scarecrow Life

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the life of a scarecrow

poses like a crucifix shadow,

waiting to pick at his own scabs,

scaring away the light,

persevering the darkness,

rife with stagnancy,

day after day, night after night,

beheading the grievous crows,

and hooking up their hearts,

to the smothered shirt sleeve,

picking at those feathers,

chewing away their juices,

drowning in pools of blood,

left to speculate, ponder

at the growing cacti,

burning in the moon light,

when he spits and urinates

his wretched purposes,

creating a raucous,

wailing with the guts of owls,

and as the sun rays dawn,

he takes up his place,

claiming lecherous life

of cackling appearances,

posing like a crucifix shadow,

waiting to pick at his own scabs

.

* My friend Charlie Zero wrote the lines (now in italics) as a comment to a scarecrow haiku I posted yesterday. He further suggested me that I could write a poem out of those lines because I had certainly liked them. Isn’t that great? Those lines acted as an inspiration to me. Thanks to Charlie. Please do visit his site. He writes some wonderful poetry, unconventional and very true-to-face in nature.