Scarecrow

There is nothing left in the empty sound
of your footsteps, beating soft against
the path that lead us in the direction,
the path that has seen thorns, ferns
and fox, before the spring and after summer,
while traveling itself a thousand times.

The spectacle of delusion is high here;
with every shadow comes a story, drifting
asleep towards old tree bark waiting to
detect a lie before returning to dust.

The symphony of each fallen leaf
does not need to be replayed
for newly interested ears,

instead each leaf must remain silent,
accepting its fate into the ground,
where worms may fatten and soil
will thrive, building with hunger
until the next feast and resurgence.

In city parks,
clocks are ticking

and bums are awake
and so are the rats
and the mosquitos

waiting to eat again
in light of brutal dawn.

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