The Scarecrow

When the night fell, the fireflies always came

to irradiate their sympathies softly

onto his stuffed cheek—the face with a sewn

expression, an emotion chosen for him upon

his birth, a pronounced smile so real that

he nearly believed in it, believed in joy.


Cursed—by immobility and an immutable

durability—he closed his eyes and dreamed

through the years in silence, living a quiet

rustic life as a functional spectacle

on a golden field. Sometimes he dreamed

of laughing winds and droning cicadas and

songs he could not name. Sometimes a new shirt

unpecked by birds and not drenched in rain.


But mostly he dreamed of the sparklers

that children held on a midsummer night

tiny, eldritch explosions that fascinated him so.

He dreamed of touching those miniature flames,

his illusionary hands pulling them close to his face

He dreamed of stitches coming loose and falling

off from the corners of his mouth and he dreamed

of weeping with his weathered, button eyes closed

as well as the salty taste of tears

on the tip of his tongue.




  1. Kim · August 14, 2011

    @ slpmartin: Thanks! It’s one of my own favourites, too. 😛

  2. Kim · August 14, 2011

    @ Alia S: Thank you! ❤

  3. Alia S · August 14, 2011

    Vivid ! I loved it.

  4. slpmartin · August 14, 2011

    Just a brilliant poem …one of my favorites of yours to day…bravo!

  5. Kim · August 14, 2011

    @ vampireweathe:
    Thank you ❤ I have a fascination for scarecrows at the moment…

  6. Kim · August 14, 2011

    @ solo27
    Thanks ❤ glad you liked it. 🙂

  7. vampireweather · August 14, 2011

    Tragically gorgeous

  8. solo27 · August 14, 2011

    Wow. I loved it.

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