Bittersweet Pumpkin

Some days I'd carve a mirror of my own. Though sometimes There are such days, Where I might render a judgment, Just so I could instill my heart cold. The intentional shivers I conjure myself to, To put a pause on my marbling of others, And mar on myself instead. Oh, Apparition that condescends in a distance, A reminiscent yet elusive doppelganger of my sort, Slumberously mirroring my every gesture and emotion of thought, Yet slipping out a totally different whisper altogether. Like a soft spoken murmur drooling out, Sung from and out of me, But redirected at me and for me. An asking to listen more while fidgeting less, As a pumpkin slowly nestles on my lap. Strange that it'd bewilder me, The sight of a bittersweet pumpkin. Castrated calmly beneath my fingers, Yet warming up in an oven of its own.