Scarecrow

The crows’ feet clawed for freedom, before the feathers began to fall; lineaments that stretched to birth and back again, appearing without portent or pageantry; they suffered in their company, memories left for dead, and tragedies that wouldn’t die

Then tears alighted, black as sin, from his dank and vacant windows; they swept to and fro in graceful chaos, like tempo from a maestro, that left him further down; a nest for naught but blackened fate, his very breath defined him so

Tumult grew with caw and coo, abuse he knew by rote; from the eyry in his darkness, restless and raucous, came threats to pick clean the bones that bore him; it was then the frenzied cacophony erupted through mind and wizened body

The atrament escaped this scarecrow in a murder foul; ruthless in rapacity, bloodletting sorrows past, they shed the barren feeding ground for further furtive fields; and his heart burst to bear the beauty of their erumpent liberty

He was a night roost no more, after the final feather fell; bedlam’s perlous perch decayed to an empty, shadow hollow; he passed away, his purpose met, on time’s forgiving fare; alone, at peace, without a fret, and not a crow to scare

art: 2011.1121 by Jarek Kubicki

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