The Scarecrow

In the corner of a blank, bare room
Wrapped and robed in bedclothes,
Draped all across a rough-hewn wood cross,
Hangs a lifeless, ragged scarecrow.

A canvas bag stuffed full of straw,
And dried paint to make a face
Looks up the sky with sorrowful eyes,
With ceaseless, sightless sad gaze.

Where nails affix the mannequin through
No bloodstains, only cheap wine.
Where sinew would stretch, holding mans’ flesh
Lies only bundles of twine.

At its feet lay untouched offerings;
Of drink, and coin, and maize.
And lying prone without sound; a worshiper bows down,
face on floor, arms out in praise.

The Scarecrow cannot heal or save.
It cannot kill, or cause to live.
It has no ear for desperate prayers,
And has no power to forgive.

At the door comes a soft-fallen knock,
Gentle, but still resounding.
But no shift or shake, or sound he makes,
The man lies still at the sounding.

A second time, the door struck loudly,
And a third, still less sedate.
But from within, no answer given.
The disciple remains prostrate.

The locks and clasps are all burst inward,
One stands like new dawn shining.
His eyes like flame, His power untamed
His robes are white like lightning.

The created god is comfortable,
And no burden to live with.
But the price that paid, to serve a thing man-made
Is that the man becomes just like it.

He has two eyes, and possesses ears,
But does not hear or see.
He’s left alone, with heart of stone;
A lifeless devotee.