Pumpkins and Magic
A prose by Devon King


The wishing well,
Still as winter's grip,
How my loathing burns
Like the potter's kiln.

Your surface mocks all,
Pure and not alike.
If i was to throw a farthing,
Would you bring me true reflection?

Or would you be like Prince John,
And steal away the little that i have?
Is a pumpkin just a pumpkin?
Slippers of glass that hold no weight?

Shall i wish for more than shoes of heated iron?
Shall i dance the dance od death and myth?
How shall i acquire a spinning wheel
When all have been burned?

Mice become horses, the dog to the door.
Watch as midnight becomes misery.
Locked in the tower,
The gold man will weave you powdered dreams.

Sell your soul for a farthing
To throw into the wishing well.
It's laughter is tinkling
Like the bells in the fickle wind.

How then shall I see the cinders?
The mighty sword makes me no King.
The lady of the lake is a murderous wretch.
She calls to me from the hidden dreams of the wicked.

The minstrels sing songs of sword and grail.
For what do you seek the cup?
I seek no chalice
But a coffin of purest glass.

A kiss I do not want but an eternal sleep.
.At the death of magic, I awaken to see a world of forgetfullness.
Men fly to other worlds and the heathen call it magic.
True magic is an enigma to the ignorant hoard.

Bury me in oak guarded by a dryad woman.
I shall find no pumpkin here.
I shall watch the earth forget itself
And return to the cradle of thought.

How has the world become a fickle foe?
The trees watch as pumpkins turn to rot,
Glass turns to sand
And pumpkins and magic become stories for the lost.