The Scarecrow

Warm breezes calmly drift
Soft sounds of silence soothe
As the sun peaks and the mood does shift.
There's an air about the land,
and a taste of bitterness released.
Calls pierce the distance,
as all rest is abruptly ceased.
For now is found a piece,
a piece which does not fit,
should not fit, but now does sit
in the form of fouls of prey
up to foul play and ill intent,
at the base of your still residence.

From these unwanted visitors come caws,
caws for cause for calls to cry foul
foul is the smell, the smell of resent
in this, the home of no repent.
Fear mongering,
feel longing,
Still pondering
the fate to except
those who choose to beset
and now beseech
of you forgiveness
on your gentle perch
of loneliness.

Absolution being granted.
Their way seeing proceeded
having known the potence
present in silence
For with the pretense
set on your defense
There's no instance
of warranted offense.

Cool night air of twilight
eases in toward your rows,
Standing eternally upright,
pressing onward in your familiar, everlasting pose.
Vision never blurred,
cause undeterred,
unmatched devotion,
cursed with no emotion.
Never to be captured in awe of the sunset,
Forever encapsulated by dreams that can not be met.