Scarecrow Self

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.