You can still see it there, sometimes - a silhouette

outlined by the moonlight, a rustic tale to tell your

children: "Mommy, what is that right there?" "It's

a scarecrow, my sweet, once used by the farmers

to frighten the crows that would peck, peck, peck

at their crops."

You can still see it there, an imitation of a man

with stuffing for blood and cloth for skin.

A pretense, a disguise, a costume to mask inanimate

stuffing behind a facade of ferocity.

Have you ever thought about how it must feel?

Does it hope for a golden path to animate its lifeless

legs, its flimsy face?

Does it hope for a wizard to grant it a brain?

Does it hope to one day be more than a fraud,

match on the inside what it is on the out?

Does it think to itself that it is not enough?

Not fearsome enough, not ferocious enough?

Not substantial enough, not smart enough?

Not human enough?

Not real enough?

Not enough enough?

For if it were truly enough, why would it

still be there? Why would the crows return

day after day if it had truly frightened them off?

Why would it be a prisoner in a farm,

crucified on a wooden plank, left

day after day, night after night, to repeat the

same, monotone task after failing it the day before?

Whatever the case,

you can still see it there, an imitation of a man

with stuffing for blood and cloth for skin.

A pretense, a disguise, a costume to mask inanimate

stuffing behind a facade of ferocity -

You can still see me there, an imitation of a girl

with straw for brains and lies for reputation.

A pretense, a disguise, a costume to mask my

mangled thoughts behind a facade of sagacity,

pretending to be more than the fool I am.

A fraud. A fake.

An impostor. A humbug.

And I'm surrounded by crows.

Scavengers, hunting for their next meal.

Pecking at my every flaw.

You can still see me there, for I am the Scarecrow,

and I'm sitting on pins and needles trying to figure out what it means

to have substance.