Of Seeds and Saints and Scarecrows

Dear FutureMe, You are a joyless pumpkin. Your lover hates cold hands. Your want is of a warm giver, but you'll settle. Your seeds are drying up but your heart isn't in anything you do. Picnics including ants. You have dreams of short haired blondes in bathtubs. Of dead people in an empty room. Desicrated coffins, and faces made from wax which people should not disturb. That is your job, to rid the world of the grave robbers. People carve your faces, pumpkin. They carve them for you. You're not grateful. There are differentiating opinions of if you should be or not. But, pumpkin, remember. You cannot even scare the birds away, for your power isn't strong enough. Never taken seriously. Don't dream too big or you shall fall, and break pumpkin, and even you cannot clean up that mess.