The Scarecrow

She stands like a scarecrow. 

tattered, beaten, unable to move. 

her legs are deep buried in the ground, 

but she herself put them there.

"Just give me my freedom!" she cries. 

but no one is holding her there.

she could dig herself out; dance away…

But she doesn't.

She does not even serve a purpose where she is.

no crows come here. no one eats here.

The people who pass feel anger inside.

they hate her for her uselessness, condemn her for her tears.

But somehow, they are glad of her, too.
She makes them feel useful.
"At least we're not like her," they say..
spiteful things.

Her face wears away, the bones are exposed.
Time has taken its toll.
If you walked past, you could hardly know
that she had once been a real girl.

And there she will always stand..
Dark tear stains running down her featureless face
Remnants of a time long gone
when she could still cry.

and daily she asks herself,
"How did it come to this?"
and wishes she had run home and danced
when she still had the chance.