Scarecrow by Keiron Tonge

Stand in the rye,
With eyes as black as jet.
Skin of burlap,
A marionette.

The winds whip your face,
The cold stings.
A little something stops being,
And something wins.

Bitterness and spite,
Roiling.
You are their cage,
Inside its boiling.

Silence is a sin,
It’s a box in which we’re kept.
Like the man amongst the crop.
Where the lingering silence crept.

It wrapped its arms around him,
Across his coal black eyes.
Eyes as cold as nothing,
Eyes that never cried.

Something stirs,
Something lingers,
Even if the only sound that leaves you lips is a continuation of the wind…