The Sugar Quill
Author: H. P. King  Story: The Ghost House  Chapter: Default
The distribution of this story is for personal use only. Any other form of distribution is prohibited without the consent of the author.

Notes - Everybody lives with ghosts: the ghosts of lost dreams and disappearing memories, the image of more innocent times. This collection of poems is dedicated to the ghost watcher within everybody. The poems here were written over an extremely frantic period, whilst I should have been revising for my A-level exams.

Disclaimer - All poems are based on the works of J.K. Rowling.


All is Dreams.

Darkness at the break of noon
Shadows all. You know too soon.
All these things you have not seen,
All these gods you have not been.
You are lucky:
You need not worry about the colors of your dream.

Overhead the universe is exploding:
The familiar horror returning
To echo through my restlessness

And fall into slipstream
With an undying gesture:
All is Dreams.


The History of The World.

The centuries roll along,
like a drop of water caught
in the all pervading tide of change.
Day. Night. Representing a perfect
circle of incongruence.

(I watch these scenes pass by
in oblivious host. A poem unfurls from me
and I am left well quenched).


Red.

for Lily

Your hair. It was red.
Was it blood red? As if
recalling a faint premonition of
the night that would come
to snatch your rainbow beauty
away. Were your eyes green?
Almost like they were embedded with tinted sapphire.
I do not recall the lines of your face.
Though I remember your hair
glistening in the fading sunlight
as you pass me on the street.

You carried your hybrid colors
with assurance. Your life was a rich
tapestry of enchantments ( a red rose
in full bloom, dancing to the sweet melody
of the season)

Until one day,
the fatal conquest.
In the throes of your last lullaby
BANG! And you were gone.
Over in a flash.


Romeo + Juliet.

for Ron and Hermione.

Who would play Romeo?
With Nocturne around his wrists
and the perfect geometry of young love
in his complexion.

And Juliet,
whose heart should outshine
the brightest star. Verona's saddest
swan song.

Unknown to you,
you were being auditioned for the lead parts
in some play. Feeling your way into the hero's role,
injecting your vitality into the beating heart
and making even dead words come alive.

(But who among them would have thought to seek
the final climax all true lovers meet).


Requiem for Tom Riddle.

The lost laughter of a child echoes down the wind.
The witchdoctor may have left you happy and quieted
having found your source in time.
But the vanishing point appeared too sharp and concise
as you passed from yourself to find some other happy medium.
Something sucked you dry. The fatal kiss
leaving you without soul.

Down at the insanity factory
they melt your brain back to water. What
returned was a dark machine which bathed
in it's own evil intent.

Your escape left you without the scar
of the parasite that was eating into your mind:
leaving you to rest in peace.

//
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