A work jacket, discarded and worn,
A once white shirt, now tattered and torn.
Grandpa’s old trousers, clawed by the cat
And to top it all a battered old hat.
My head and body stuffed full of straw
Then planted here, what am I for?
Birds are not scared, they perch on my arms
Pecking at corn meant for your barns.
In giving me this form,
Which for you is the norm,
You created awareness
Of this desolate bareness
And my lonely existence
As you then kept your distance.
Your God’s son died like me
Nailed to a tree.
And for what purpose?
Perhaps only the crows.
© Susan E Birch – October 2016
Featured Writer from “Creative Talents Unleashed Writers Group”
Categories: Featured Writer's