Scarecrow

Alone; just the night for company

Tattered man with just memories

A corpse staked out for all to see

Tormented martyr

Silent whisper echoes across the fields

“What is it like to be dead?”

Screams the man on the stake

“What’s it like, world...to be dead?”

The old oak draws it’s branches away

The birds will not rest on its arms

As he rots, slowly but surely

And with him takes the world itself

The crops grow, food for plenty

But the virus out stretches its arms

He drains the lifeblood

And crop withers and dies

Beasts of carrion, smell the meat

And circle close by, then venture near

He smiles a tormented, twisted smile

Laughs at the rotting corpse of humanity