The memory of her kiss
is hidden somewhere in my dreams--
probably deep in the corn maze
of pointless thoughts
guarded by that faceless scarecrow
with arms outstretched
waiting for love.
How easily on this rainy night
an assassin could stab his chest
and tear out arteries of straw
in search of a heart,
leaving the cavity to fill
with a puddle of stars.
If I could be that assassin, though,
I think I'd let the old scarecrow live.
I'd sit with him at the entrance of the maze
and wait for love, too
