MAGIC IS MIGHT

I am scared.
Scared that when the time is right,
When time is come,
I will think to write
With pen poised in hand
But the words don’t spill,
Instead,
A space fills with blotting ink
That tendrils across my page
Until all I see is
Blood red.

I clutch at paper,
Thin and crumbling,
with trembling hands
and move in haste
(I always try to flee)
knock things over
push people from my way
All the while,
My ink still spreads merrily
across my winter page;

A winter page:
No other word for white
One that faces harsh suns
With pale light-
For when I tried to think,
And hence, write,
I found my page
Smothered in white.
MAGIC IS MIGHT.

—–*****—–

Note: This poem was written on October 10th, 2016 when I was supposed to be doing math homework. ‘Twas written in one go and on paper.

Also, in case you haven’t read Harry Potter and assumed the title came from the recesses of mine head, it is not so. This comes from the Pius-Thicknesse-was-Minister-of-Magic era.