Fly to dreams

(A/N A poem I wrote for a friends birthday ^^ – hope she’ll like it…. btw see what the first letters of each line spell)
Willow like little feet
In fright utters a tweet
Noxious fear creeps in
Goads, whispers “You won’t win”
Serpentine is this voice
 
Stunned, the bird makes no noise.
Presently, mother trills
Reassured fowl refills
Energised, reaches out
Arises, tall and stout
Decides, “Come what weather,
 
Oust my fear with feather.”
Usurps wits, bids goodbye
Takes off into the sky
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War Leeches

Metallic clashes sound

Raging war knows no bound

Fires crackle and roar

Death has opened his door

Homes reduced to rubble

Survival is struggle.

 

Roads stop leading to Rome

Poison lies in sea foam

Balances have now tipped

Nightingales are tight-lipped.

 

When spark of war is born

Red brides become forlorn

Belly swollen with child

Eyes awake, puffed and wild

They await husbands brave

To quench the love they crave.

Two Fireflies

Two flickering fireflies

Wander a winter night away

They prattle and hiss

And they communicate..

 

Two strange fireflies

They find solace

In an unusual companionship

Which might not be erroneous after all.

 

Two fireflies, one bleeding

The other perhaps barely pulling through

Cannot but wonder

At the spark of humour shared between.

 

Two fireflies, one hailing from the hills

The other from rocky suburban coasts

They want to believe

That the world isn’t all about deceit.

 

Two fireflies, now homeward bound

In their hearts ignite

An almost bizarre song

That the world will one day unite for.

Contemplation

(A/N Just thought I’d try my hand at fanfiction. Here are the results. Hope they aren’t too disastrous. I’d love to hear what you make of it. Be as rude as you feel like as long as you know what you’re talking about)

A ghost of a smile graced the young gent’s usually grim face as he fixed his gaze upon the infamous tapestry before him. He fixed his shaggy mane as it obstructed his line of sight and followed with diligent grey orbs the singe marks that adorned it. It was these marks, he thought, that made the entire wall worth even glancing at. The marks denoted all of those who had managed to learn to think for themselves and see sense – those who knew that their lineage had naught to do with their capabilities or lack thereof, and did not give them any right to turn their abnormally large noses up at others.

These were the people with courage to stand up for what they believed in and become their own person. These were the people who would give their lives for a friend. These people dreamed and cared, and wanted things for themselves. These blackened Blacks had an earnestness that the rest of the “family” could not bear to tolerate, and had pushed them away.

And he was one such person.

Sirius Black certainly took pride in having disowned and having been disowned by the elitist, snotties he had the misfortune to be related to. – to be the dog star in his black family. He was proud, that he was a free man – free, even while he had been in a prison that was built to suck away souls and make rag dolls out of men.

Twelve dark years, Sirius had spent in prison, made to repent for a crime he did not commit, and yet blamed himself for; with no blood in his hands, but with guilt plaguing his veins. These twelve years, he had thought, would stretch onto an eternity of grieving for his beloved brother and best friend – James Potter. It would be, he had feared, an eternity of never beholding the smiles on his godson’s face again, and never watching him grow up and pampering him rotten, and sulk around when he went off to school whilst being proud of the brat.

In this fictitious, dreadful eternity, Sirius could never apologize to Remus, for wrongly suspecting him for the most heinous crime he could think of, and one in which the whole world knew him to be far worse than your average muggle – loathing pro-pure blood Black. Most of all, it was one in which he could never make Peter Pettigrew pay.

He had feared that he would never again have a warm drink of butterbeer, ride a broomstick, pick on Snivellus or just hang out with his friends. Sirius’ thoughts grew dark. Thy drifted towards the hooded hooligans who had kept him at baay. He shuddered – never again, he thought.

Yet, here Sirius was – in his ancestral house (he refused to call it a “home”), which he had thought he had sworn never to come back to, standing before solid evidence of how much his former family loathed him. He had found a new family now – Harry, the Weasleys, the rest of the order and that little muggle born girl – Hermione Granger, and why not – even Buckbeak was family.

He may not be in an ideal situation, being on the run (while actually being rooted to one place, he noted sourly) , and with Voldemort at large, but for the moment, he was satisfied with how he had turned out.

“Stains of dishonour, filthy half-breeds, blood traitors, children of filth!”

Curse that shrieking woman. He kept telling them not to ring the doorbell. Sirius snapped out of his thoughts, getting up to draw the curtains and shut his dear departed mother up. One thing had not changed over the years – he loved to annoy his mother (Though the screams made things quite tiresome).

Image

Face in the mirror

Where’s the beauty in that

face in the reflection?

Others are near perfect.

why am I imperfection?

 

Maybe its true, that I

wasn’t meant to be born.

That is what they all say,

they look at me with scorn.

 

Beauty might be skin deep

but I wish I had some

It’s hard to be wistful

It’s harder to keep mum.

 

I do not want glamour

my face put on a screen-

Just somewhere to belong

and not be so obscene.

 

She looks like a goddess,

has reason to be vain.

Me on the other hand?

I am not even plain.