Sunday, August 24, 2008
I fear I write in a singular style
So to break free I must push myself; go another mile.
This is a story of love I write
It has nothing to do with sex, drugs or plight.
A truer love story never will you behold
Between a girl and a pumpkin; I fear I’m being bold.
“Oh dear one, how can we go on this way?
To bide our time is what you always say!
But to be wed to you is my only wish
Lest you end up being my mother’s favourite dessert dish!”
“Oh fair maiden, with you there to protect me
I shall be safe and sound and make a grand entry
Into your beautiful house
As a son-in-law and spouse”
As the days passed by and the years skipped on
The girl grew weary and said to him one morn:
“Oh dear one, I heard talk over dinner
They need a pumpkin, with Halloween just around the corner!
And with you being the only pumpkin in the house
They have no choice but to carve you inside out.
This time I cannot save you dear one
By day break they will come for you and you shall be gone.”
So heartbroken was the pumpkin
I have no words to describe him
Enraged with his fate
So filled was he with hate
So come Halloween day
When everyone was trick or treatin’ and gay
And in the girls great manor
Was held an extravagant dinner
A seven course meal
Chicken, ham, pork and veal
A three-tiered cake for dessert
And a pumpkin (the pumpkin) carved with a pair of thick scissors.
As the guests waited for a slice of the cake
The lights dimmed out and the floor began to shake.
And in a voice that boomed like thunder
Spoke the pumpkin to rip hearts asunder
“Oh fair maiden, thou hast forsaken me!
I have now returned to exact my revenge; this you shall see!
Before the night is over you shall all be dead
And your bodies turned into statues made of concrete and lead!
In death you shall experience the most excruciating pain
All attempts to mollify me shall pass through in vain”
With a cackle and a hoot the pumpkin set himself on fire
His job was done; there was nothing left for him to desire.
In terror the guests made haste to get out
Just to find the doors locked with a padlock so stout
At the turn of the hour, as the clock struck twelve
The house shook with the screams of the guests and the tolling of the bell.
Come morning, in the manor, where silence prevailed.
One can still hear the silent cries of the young maiden; of pain unveiled…
[Note to the general audience - The images that I have posted are not my own. These have just been randomly selected to suit my poems.]