Hollow Harvest

Prologue

This is for Poppy’s Prompt #10 and Mikeydred’s Octoberon Challenge.

We all thrive on compassion, like these pumpkins do, don’t we?

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The fields lay bare, dry

like withered skin,

where the vines once reached,

now they turn, like brittle fingers

grabbing the dust of a vacant sky.

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Pumpkins wait, swollen yet empty,

silent observers of the thirst

no rain will satiate.

They once grew plump in the sun,

but ignored, their hearts—

oh, their hearts—turned hollow.

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Each empty shell groans with whispers,

a low, angry cry,

all neglected calls for warmth,

compassion long denied.

The villagers walk by, eyes averted,

none hearing the voices,

or each other.

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The drought crept further into their moans,

their fingers, eyes—

a dry gust of apathy

that carved out everything

it touched.

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In the eerie quietness,

the pumpkins decay from within,

soft decomposition spreading,

as if to say, nothing thrives

where compassion cannot reach.

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Still, they wait,

smiling wide, hoping mouths,

seeds of kindness withering inside,

waiting for the rain

that is to come.