Mors Vincit Omnia

Did carrion birds
perch atop Christ
as they do you, scarecrow?
Did they mock his crucifixion
by pruning their tail feathers
on his outspread arms?
Strange that by dying
he was supposed to defeat Death
and yet Death ate his fill
while the body gave up the spirit—
not unlike you, scarecrow,
made of straw and corn
which these disciples of Death
drag out in gleeful disarray
like confetti at a victory party.
Sometimes I wonder at
Christ’s true expression
as those winged shadows cackled
their cynic’s laughter.
Was it bravery? Dread?
Doubt?
Or was it akin to your steadfast smile,
scarecrow,
stitched stiffly into place
by someone else’s forceful hand
as you face your existential crisis
and find your life’s purpose
ultimately futile?

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