PETER PUMPKIN-EATER WAS A CRUEL MAN

Oh, what a prison cell

A pumpkin shell would make

For orange stings

the consciousness

With tiny irritating pricks

Like a pacing figure

In an unrelenting pattern

Intruding upon your vision.

There is no sitting still

In an orange-drenched room.

It is no place

For the contemplative to pray.

Silence is not an option,

And stillness contrary to its nature.

Rocking, pacing

Within the omnipresence of orange,

A prisoner could not rest.

Confined to orangeness

You would likely lose reality,

Begin to babble incoherently

Of other colors from years past:

Blue or red, brown or green

Yellow, pink, olive

Cerise or black.

You might easily lose your mind

As it spills out, washing over

The constancy of orange

In hallucinogenic visions

Of those other colors of memory

In a conjury of escape.

Oh, what a prison cell

A pumpkin shell would make.