The birds have gone, oh you wish they were still around. Eating at your face, picking at your palest sense of taste. No tongue left to eat them, to devour their apathy. Spit in a bowl and say its food, for the land to grow itself and have each day. With pepper salt and bouquets of fruit, with the basket of flowers that rescued my sanity and drove it through my heart with a stake and pick axing corn rows.
Tornado that kills a scarecrow also killed those birds with plate glass window frame smashing and bits of furniture trashing around inside, stuck together like glue, still carried through with a force, surrounded collapsing world unfolds. The fear of being alive when it hits, enough to scare you to death, ironic really scarecrow? you meekly standing there alone, so wooden and so old, so without the smallest hope, the faintest semblance of a light, the thunder rolls right out of sight. Your eyes, your eyes barely blinking, starkly shimmering denied, try to laugh or try to smile, i swear you forgot the moment you died.
Arms so weakly blown of course, a torn up jacket, a full moon thought. Naked and without escape, a half-made man, wishing away, all of life’s little spoils, liberation fields of joy. Harvest from the dead sun’s toys, superficial scars destroy, all what comes Winter’s black frogs and what was furniture has now been lost. In the wind, the land was screaming in and begging you to not pretend, you don’t hear a single sobbing kid, in the storm that killed you in the end, the end.
Don’t piss on a scarecrow, you may get wet!!