The knife of life carves indiscriminately without warning said the runts of the pumpkin patch now lined in mourning. A farmer plucked biggest one, cutting vine, as the runts cried a black harvest, Mama being carted off, as she died. Sad black crows circle the day and night sky abreast and stressed as the winds of fate wielded its teeth at the oppressed. A blur of orange is all the crows saw amongst the quivering patch as the farmer tiptoed the pasture wide-eyed on getting his ******. Now at the hour of her death angels play harps of fruition in wake of the wide-eyed farmer's wayward act of abscission. Billows of black smoke followed, taking to the ominousΒ Β skies as the incinerator took matters in its own hands as she lies. Then all that was left were the ashes and whispers of the past, a eulogy, as her quivering kin sat in the storybook downcast. Pages cried out, tears filled the chapters of a great pumpkin patch her roots holding each on the vines with love that's hard to match. No day came off, of a jack-o-lantern smiling in a window frame for in this family house cancer snatched mothers life just the same.