Rot (The Scarecrow)

We told ourselves it was only an illusion
But now the illusions are real
We make our own
And make others see
Waiting rooms between here
And unreality

Yet another poem for my novel, though it can be about anything you like. It's meant to be sort of a head-f*ck.

Leather straps and peeling paint
The decorator did a great job
Now moths hang still from the ceiling tiles
In place of chandeliers
And mean little viruses tug our strings
Dance, puppet, dance

We told ourselves it was only an illusion
But now the illusions are real
We make our own
And make others see
Waiting rooms between here
And unreality

Insanity has a nice singing voice
We watch our Bedlam burn
Listening to wounded egos cry
They huddle in the corners
They scratch at the doors
And listen to our breathing
Scratch, scratch scratch
(Let us in, little pig)
The sound becomes a mantra
By which we mean lullaby
By which we mean make it stop

So we took our scalpels and drew a happy face
On the pristine white flesh of a broken girl
And it felt so good to do something
About this, but then we remembered
That another human being trusted us and we gave her
A lifetime of stillness, silent decay

Perhaps we should be locked up too
The past crept back, and our flesh grew into the walls
And we became part of it all
So deeply one with what we'd done
That there was no distinction between our eyes
And its peepholes
Our flesh and its plaster and paint

We begged to become something new
And the dark god granted our wishes
Made our touch adhere like glue
So we drag the confused and the lonely
Back to our twisted little world
And we hurt them and we help them but
Mostly, we hurt them
And the sting feels good
And the rot tastes sweet

The scarecrow rips free from his wooden cross
And tells us to do this too
But we can't because we're part of you
So we stay, and our stuffing comes loose

Ask a good friend what it means to be broken
To be mad
And good chance he'll tell you
Absolutely nothing

True madness is the tendril of the vine
That stems from hollow places
A seed planted before birth, watered after the drought
That almost killed your soul
But somehow you came back from the wasteland
Utterly changed and utterly
Delectable

We consumed your heart while the crows watched
So now we hold your strings
Dance, puppet, dance
And the rot tastes sweet

The End

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