#selfindulgence

WIPS vvvv

Sometimes we suck like dementors, sometimes like deluminators, we shine.

But those without pain are no friends of mine.

A sublime kiss or flower,

Treasured in reference to past’s hour...

Hands in sands dissolve- evolution,

Yet we seek, when seeking resolves without resolution.

Devotion: divine beyond mappings of time,

Or so divising dividing concepts of “yours and mine.”

Our crime-

To think ourselves Master of our rhyme.

Instead, a slave to the messes of our ways,

Trying our hand at picking our agonizing days-

A mockery, as the Son picked Judice,

And Dumbledore, Severus,

Salvation and scape goats,

Link martyrdom to Holy Ghosts.

As if X ever did mark the spot,

With a dot dot dot...

With Maurader’s and traders,

And invisibly inked, trick wagers...

As if a body to a cross,

Brings life beyond reminiscent top knots.

And a mother’s Love did leave a scar,

Equipped with a lightning bolt pact with Riddle’s prophecy in a jar.

As if Revelations spun from trinities and bed-time stories,

Like the Deathly Hallows and special, chosen boy allegories.

As if Harry, Ron and Hermione’s screams didn’t chorus,

Beyond their “innocent” trips to the Dark Forest.

Oh sacred temple of ambivalence,

As if marked by blaspheming tattoos of repentance,

Like sharpie that lick’s smudge smears away,

Or a sad attempt to fill emptiness like chik-fil-a-lust on a Sunday.

Boohooing priveledged tears as if sacred blood drops,

From the secrecy of my shower, fantasizing being spied from a roof top.

My dreams of dramatic affections,

As if make-believe tithings of delusory perceptions...

Deluged red, such aggrandized conceptions,

Emaculate as Magdalen, as explorative as Magellen...

Salt water splatters diluted as if not by tyranny,

But my role in my life and it’s comical irony.

It’s as if Peeves is the real ruler of Hogwarts,

Masterminding- all efforting he thwarts.

I’ve no horcrux to hide or Dark Mark to show,

Though most like Slytherin, though not pure blooded- I know.

My soul’s redemption rests not in high hopes,

For questing responds in quacks of resulting nopes.

When all potentiality has washed away, meaningless, voyeurless in the dark,

I’m left icy from lack of running water abuse beliefs- the truth stark...

As if without emotion,

Without a self-indulged notion,

Finally alone,

a quiet space one might call home...

Such loneliness burns like a lamp without oil,

For anointing is no longer needed, when the heart’s released its toil.

It’s neither a snakes‘ attempt to tempt man’s awakening,

Nor his naked, lion-pride’s fall or forsaking.

For I, you and we are alright,