Nearer to My Ugliness
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I stand like a scarecrow.
My arms outstretched, and
In my palms rest two birds.
They rest upon my gloved straw fingers,
And my ripped plaid pocket.
Near my scars,
Nearer to my ugliness.
They sing and they argue back and forth.
Yet, I am still, amongst them,
They have made their home in my arms,
In this empty field where I am planted.
Where I am planted to face the winds,
The snow, the ice.
I am not alone with them.
Retched or worthless.
They have found something of worth in me,
For with me they are warm, and
Planted to face the sunrise and sunsets.
They are planted to see the changing of seasons,
And with me they are protected.
Protected amongst my straw, my scars, my flannel skin.