Cycle Of The Scarecrow


A scarecrow in autumnal sheen
thinks of all that he has been.
His age old frame begins to lean
as bitter winds blow in, so keen.
He longs for days of evergreen,
so buys back time, wipes the slate clean,
gives his soul to the pumpkin queen -
the witch who walks at Halloween.

The scarecrow dreams of living free
He thinks he’s gonna survive
The summer sun, the winter snow,
He’s never felt so alive.
The scarecrow dreams of living free
He thinks he’s gonna survive
The springtime thaw, the autumn leaves,
He’s never felt so alive.

A scarecrow in the wax moonlight
is snowed upon one winters night
and as the crystals, soft, alight
he dreams perhaps some day he might
take footsteps off into the bright
ice world. His skeletal delight
some hours later, fat and white
with snow-flesh - waiting for coal sight.

The scarecrow dreams of leaving home
He thinks he’s gonna survive
The summer sun, the winter snow,
He’s never felt so alive.
The scarecrow dreams of leaving home
He thinks he’s gonna survive
The springtime thaw, the autumn leaves,
He’s never felt so alive.

A scarecrow in a cutting rain
watches his slush slide down the drain
and as it leaves, he feels the pain
as bones of wood protrude and drain.
Weak sunlight sows the sleeping grain
as he is called upon, again,
to stand guard over crops – attain
dominance over winters stain.

The scarecrow dreams of working hard
He thinks he’s gonna survive
The summer sun, the winter snow,
He’s never felt so alive.
The scarecrow dreams of working hard
He thinks he’s gonna survive
The springtime thaw, the autumn leaves,
He’s never felt so alive.

A scarecrow dries in summer sun
knowing that, once more, he’s won
the right of those, which he is one,
to face the crows of Albion.
Then as the solstice webs are spun
and shadows lengthen, day is done –
he knows that he cannot outrun
what summers beetles have begun.

The scarecrow dreams of dying now
He’s not so sure he’ll survive
The summer sun, the winter snow,
He’s never felt less alive.
The scarecrow dreams of dying now
He’s not so sure he’ll survive
The springtime thaw, the autumn leaves,
He’s never felt less alive.

A scarecrow in autumnal sheen
thinks of all that he has been.
His age old frame begins to lean
as bitter winds blow in, so keen.
He longs for days of evergreen,
so buys back time, wipes the slate clean,
gives his soul to the pumpkin queen -
the witch who walks at Halloween.