The Human Condition Defined by Straw

To gaze upon the fallen snow,

pondering love, why, and war

twas then a moon beam blessed my face,

Mine eyes arise, fresh blood to taste.

Alas! A beast I am no more, picked by crows

the bones that bore,

flesh hath fallen,

revealed my core;

a wooden scarecrow,

humble, poor.

For with out blood, the beast will die.

With no straw the scarecrow lies.

Becomes an idol, nothing more.

.

But none of this! It is abhorred!

As wings unfurrow like once before.

Slowly open obsidian eyes,

To scan the frost, moon and loss.

With time untied,

The birds abide,

Plucking strings out from his sides.

For when all’s perceived with objectivity’s eyes,

and if you question the possible lie,

There is no balance to be wrought.

Nothing but a shattered heart.

And so this husk shuffles on.

The wings corroded, the sight now gone.

Tho if some night you wander by a torn disheveled field of rye

and hold your ear up to the breeze, you may yet hear this creature wheeze,

“Where is the rest of me,”