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Pumpkin

It was a helpless pumpkin, an innocent orange fruit.

You picked it up with a grin and took it under your wing.

With a knife you hid in your life and carved it the way you please.

You made the pumpkin perfect, your sublime object.

When it was wrong you'd change its song.

You stole it from the patch, lit its stems with a match.

If its taste wasn't perfect you'd lace it with a lie.

You fed the pumpkin with bad things you said.

Your crooked words made the poor thing rot.

If she was a pie she'd waste away in a trash pot.

You stole the grief of that you put upon it.

When finally you left it lay on the road.

Left it out so cold.

Then you came by when it was nearly black, oh so dead.

Hit it with a bat and watched it bleed its crumbly seeds.

You walked away, a cretin who dismissed the palpability that pumpkins grow once again when their seeds are spilt.





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