The day it becomes a pumpkin.

((I didn't come up with this concept by myself; this poem was inspired from Ouran High School Host Club, actually, haha.

Everyone has a magical carriage we've cast a spell upon, that we don't want to turn into a pumpkin. That could be as simple as a little girl not wanting her tea party or daydreams with her stuffed animals to end because of bath time; or, as deep as contentment where we are in life now, not wanting anything to change, though we know it someday will. The concept really hit me recently, so, here's a poem about it.

I guess you can assume my carriage would be liking how life is now, yet feeling the constant tug of anxiety or stress or change happening, and how I don't want any of that to happen. I'm always in fear of extreme change, no matter what it is, because you never know where it will lead you.))

The day it becomes a pumpkin,

would be a somber day indeed.

A beautiful carriage, glossy and gleaming,

is more wistful and desired

than a plump, rotting vegetable

with too many a seed.

I cast a spell on that carriage,

it carried me smoothly as I sat cozily inside.

Along the way, though, the wheels hit rocks,

and as I got tossed and turned,

my fear of the little spell fading

was too hard for me to hide.

The door gave in, the carriage threw me out

and I was sent sliding across the ground

I watched the carriage, wildly out of control,

shrinking, distorting, morphing,

the wheels extending into vines.

Abrupt, it all vanished with out a sound.

Dark, haunting forest towered over me

the wane moon spilling it's light.

I wandered around, aghast, alone

my foot ramming into an obtrusion

spilling me over into the cold ground,

but as I lifted, turned, the pumpkin filled my sight.

I hung my head,

my fingers curling into the soil

An extravagant carriage is ideal,

but even spells have their due.

Once cruel change snags and steals you,

it may turn anyone's fairy tale into toil.