Like That of A God
The moon, a dusty orange orb, hangs low in the skyline,
fringing the wind ushered clouds—outlining the early
morning darkness like a curvy line of fire floating above
Addison watches the spectacle of nature unfurl with eyes
woken much earlier than usual. He gazes through the
shifting tentacles of a weeping willow, head positioned on a
soft moss covered root. The moss spreads out wide and
thick beneath him—compressing comfortably around his
boney pressure points.
The scarecrow had controlled the laws of physics yesterday,
encasing Clayton in a cast made out of his own headstone,
and unnaturally sent him up into the atmosphere and
beyond the moon.
Thoughts overflow Addison this morning, splashing
onto his wooden protector like holy water, wetting his image
of the scarecrow in utmost affection—like that of which he
can’t give his unknown and long since dead parents.
Like that of a god.