Posts
Gavin, Where Art Thou?
By the Pen of Thomas Miller
In the shadowed halls of a creaking home,
Where
the scent of beasts would dare to roam,
Lived Gavin McBurden, a
man forlorn,
Born of sin, of wedlock torn.
A child unloved,
cast out and cursed,
The world’s contempt his cradle first.
Yet Gavin's hands were gifted, deft,
Carving life
where none was left.
Pumpkins bore his tender touch,
Shapes of
beauty, strange and such.
But his heart was heavy, a cauldron of
hate,
For humankind sealed his bitter fate.
In his house of twelve, his kingdom small,
The
animals thrived; he cherished them all.
A rabbit named Clover, a
dog called Rue,
A parrot that whispered secrets he knew.
He fed
them, healed them, gave them his care,
But for mankind? He’d
none to spare.
On Thanksgiving night, a feast was laid,
But not
from the harvest the earth had made.
No turkey roasted, no
cranberries sweet,
Instead, a darkness adorned the meat.
For
Gavin despised the human race,
And found his vengeance in every
taste.
The knife he wielded, sharp and true,
Carved more
than pumpkins—it carved through you.
He smiled as he plated the
savory sin,
A grim delight in the feast within.
His animals
watched with innocent eyes,
As Gavin partook of his gristly prize.
“Oh, where art thou, Gavin?” the winds would
cry,
“Born unloved, left to die.
But in your hate, you’ve
found reprieve,
A darker love, you now believe.”
Yet in his
solitude, he’d often weep,
Haunted by the love he could never
keep.
For Gavin, the man, was but a ghost,
A hollow
figure, a somber host.
His beasts adored him, but could not
see,
The abyss that lay where his soul should be.
And so, on
Thanksgiving, his tale is told,
A chilling feast, both dark and
cold.
In the heart of man, where love should thrive,
Gavin
found hate to keep him alive.
But as the candle’s flame grew
dim,
Who would mourn or remember him?
Only the beasts, his
cherished friends,
Howled for Gavin, as his story ends.