draper pritchard [d12m/CBD2/fin]

desolate land of the walking scarecrows
i could never stomach their beady stares
or stitched judgements
they ask me:
"what are you made of?"
and it isn't straw
it's wrought-iron
cast in red hot injustice

my father is strung up
by his right arm, and his neck
and his eyes they are long gone
but his flesh is so everpresent that every time i look at his corpse
hung up as an example
that i start to believe
that my stomach may be made of straw after all
but of course
my family name has weight on its own
and it's refined by me
the last working male
the last hope
or so they say
they
my five hungry brothers
with their yellowing flesh
hallowed eyes
scarecrow hair
and their fingernails are so unkept
that i fear their hunger will turn them like rats
against each other

and so because my father fought a system
that was already broken
now i must try and work with a dented name
to rebuild
and survive