the lonely scarecrow
sits on his perch,
not breathing at all
though he wishes
he could.
at least breathing
would give him
something
to feel.
at least breathing
would make him
more human.
the lonely scarecrow
sits on his perch
he does not have a heart
though he wishes
he did.
at least a beating
heart
would give him
a rhythm.
at least a beating
heart
would make him
alive.
the lonely scarecrow
sits on his perch
he's without a companion
though he wishes
he weren't.
at least a
companion
would give him
a purpose.
at least a
companion
would make him
feel real.
the lonely scarecrow,
sits on his perch
wondering when -
if at all -
things will change.
will he
ever breathe?
will he feel
his heart beat?
will there be
somebody
with whom
he'll get to be?
and most important
of all,
will the crows
ever leave?
YOU ARE READING
Organized Chaos - These are My Thoughts
PoetryNo, These are not poems. So flimsy a thing as can be called a few words on a page. These are thoughts. Paper thoughts, broken and scattered and gone like the wind. Iron anvil thoughts, never leaving though it is all I can ever ask of them. Invisible...
