Hanging in the darkness of the corn,
Hay-stuffed, ragged jeans and checkered shirt,
Expressionless, save for carved look of scorn,
Silently, he watches them, inert.
The birds descend upon his stuffed physique,
A murder on his back, to his disdain;
Endlessly they chatter, squawk and beak --
Blind to their tresspass on his domain.
Yet, were they to leave the golden field,
Take to air and leave him on his own,
He may find his mind and body healed,
Though pointlessly, for he is all alone.
Forever silent, hanging neath' the moon,
Hoping that the crows will come back soon.
- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.
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