Gavin, Where Art Thou?

By the Pen of Thomas Miller

In the shadowed halls of a creaking home,
Wherethe scent of beasts would dare to roam,
Lived Gavin McBurden, aman 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 lifewhere none was left.
Pumpkins bore his tender touch,
Shapes ofbeauty, strange and such.
But his heart was heavy, a cauldron ofhate,
For humankind sealed his bitter fate.

In his house of twelve, his kingdom small,
Theanimals thrived; he cherished them all.
A rabbit named Clover, adog called Rue,
A parrot that whispered secrets he knew.
He fedthem, healed them, gave them his care,
But for mankind? He’dnone to spare.

On Thanksgiving night, a feast was laid,
But notfrom the harvest the earth had made.
No turkey roasted, nocranberries sweet,
Instead, a darkness adorned the meat.
ForGavin despised the human race,
And found his vengeance in everytaste.

The knife he wielded, sharp and true,
Carved morethan pumpkins—it carved through you.
He smiled as he plated thesavory sin,
A grim delight in the feast within.
His animalswatched with innocent eyes,
As Gavin partook of his gristly prize.

“Oh, where art thou, Gavin?” the winds wouldcry,
“Born unloved, left to die.
But in your hate, you’vefound reprieve,
A darker love, you now believe.”
Yet in hissolitude, he’d often weep,
Haunted by the love he could neverkeep.

For Gavin, the man, was but a ghost,
A hollowfigure, a somber host.
His beasts adored him, but could notsee,
The abyss that lay where his soul should be.
And so, onThanksgiving, his tale is told,
A chilling feast, both dark andcold.

In the heart of man, where love should thrive,
Gavinfound hate to keep him alive.
But as the candle’s flame grewdim,
Who would mourn or remember him?
Only the beasts, hischerished friends,
Howled for Gavin, as his story ends.