Trapped in a pool of its melancholy
nostalgia its sole reflection
time is the only wind that
ripples the surface and
spawns self-same currents,
—as if this were
a heady matrix of absence and desire
when its but a fool’s plaything
to chime away shallow suffering—
of a Scarecrow Self
who battles the days and night
lone sentinel of windswept barrens
learning endurance
and its place in the world.
