Pumpkinhead

One year ago….

Chimera Poetry

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Pumpkinhead,
brainless and empty,
tealight the only brightness and toothy grin the only expression,
until the squirrels gnaw him away….
So with this in mind
there was no panic when he appeared,
triangle eyed and dopey,
in the window.
She thought the light behind his wideslashed smile seemed a little…
off.
A little….
different.
The scent of pumpkin more than a little….
metallic.
But Halloween is a time of happy pumpkins and hershey bars and candy apples
so what could there be to fear,
 she thought, 
as she opened the back door…
 
Later,
much later,
when the questions asked over and over
and left answerless,
were only clean blank spots in a locked away file,
and November and December had banished the taint of all hallows…
Pumpkinhead
not empty
not empty
(God help us…not empty)
shambled up the familiar street,
fresh harvested from an unspeakable slumber,
with a light…

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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