The scarecrow

Damn me for the pain I feel
judge me for my acts
knowing I've done nothing wrong
the aching still attacks,
somewhere, somehow
sorrow filtered
into all the cracks
solidified this soul that died;
a statue made of flax.

So Light the wick
and watch me burn
to smoke and soulful cries
then torch my bitter spirit
for it would no longer rise
and there, do stare
and do compare
your vision to my own
my heart was unconditional
but now it's made of foam.

So leave me hanging, immolating
desolate,alone
ascending to a higher plain
beyond this futile zone
and let the candles serenade
the flowers on my stone
where mock the birds
reciting words
to shadows, trees
and bone.

Damn me for not living up
to all the things you planned
tonight I sacrifce to you
this lonely wicker man.