Scarecrow

 Scarecrow 

His heart was still, no pulse did it display,

Before he laid his eyes on her one day.

A scarecrow stood in fields afar, forlorn,

Crucified on the distant horizon, worn.

Crows perched upon his locks of gold,

Like sun-kissed strands, a sight to behold.

They draped across his pallid, tired face,

As if the sun's own kiss, a tender grace.

Pain wove its threads around him tight,

Stealing his final breath in fading light.

A spectre now, no heartbeat could be found,

A scarecrow's frame upon life's battleground.

He dreamt of soaring high above the sky,

Across endless seas, where dreams do fly.

To embrace the horizon, touch the sky,

Then fall into the depths, no end to try.

Silence, a tomb, in its profound embrace,

A glimmer in tears, like a fleeting trace.

A mirage choking on his stuttered breath,

The hourglass spins, marking time to death.

Golden strands unveiled, like fire without smoke,

A star fleeting, his heart it awoke.

His wounds, a torrent of love and pain so vast,

As heavens fell, a spell they cast.

He stood, crucified in her sight 

His heart ablaze, burring bright 

Straw-made yet burning with desire

For her, he set his own heart on fire 

Maxwell O’REILLY