If I were to cast a patronus charm
It would perhaps be the contour of a pen
And the evocation would be of the words I've never enunciated but scrawled.
The dementors of yore yet bedevil me
My soul is imbibed by them.
As the hooded tenebrosity nears me
I feud for a souvenir to extricate myself
I start sensing loss of hope when I see it,
A pale shimmer in the darkness of my psyche that grows more incandescent each blink
It approaches me and mildly pushes my soul back into me.
I enquire the luminescence "What potency are you?"
A voice enounces "They call me POETRY, you can call me HOME"
Picture courtesy : Google