Once I was the eternal optimist,
despite the annual massacre of my tribe,
my own personal decapitation;
taken from my roots, brains scooped out,
left in need of an orthodontist
– I could still force a grin,
the light inside flickered on.
Even with that disastrous makeover
it wasn’t all bad: no hair, ears or chin
but wasn’t that a pumpkin after all?
And with just a click of my imaginary toes
my fantasy nose, the loan of a fairy wand,
I could abscond and off, with horses,
coachman and all to the palace ball.
But now there’s no escaping the truth
of our short-lived usefulness
– faces turning inward,
those smiles collapsing as the rot sets in.
The compost heap or rubbish bin beckons.
Time still to claim the darkness,
own and share our light
– pumpkin heads unite!