He approached the castle, wand in hand,
That cool, dark, and creepy night.
The Dark lord’s presence fouled his thoughts,
He felt something was not quite right.
Through fire, wind, earth, and water
Battled brave young Harry Potter.

He had a plan ready for him
But not alone would he stand
For with his friends at his back
They would rid the darkness from this land.
Through fire, wind, earth, and water
Battled brave young Harry Potter.

Tricked by those who still walked the dark path
He watched his god-father breathe his last
Then picked up his wand from where it lay
And readied for a mighty blast.
Through fire, wind, earth, and water
Battled brave young Harry Potter.

The dark lord cast at the same time
Brave Harry held his wand true and right
As the spirits of all the Dark lord killed
Were released, at last, into the night.
Through fire, wind, earth, and water
Battled brave young Harry Potter.

The comic convention
has cardboard cutouts of
all of the main characters of
Harry Potter.

Harry,
Ron,
Hermione,
etc.
All motionless in a river of people,
glossy but worn down,
bathed in cold white halogen.

And one by one,
the cosplayers—
the Harrys
Rons
Hermiones,
etc.

Have their pictures taken
with the cutouts,
one cardboard cutout cut out
and replaced with a real human being.

Being human, we
crave companionship,
fear solitude,
crave solitude,
fear companionship.

We try to avoid becoming cardboard
cutouts of ourselves, but sometimes
a retreat into inanimacy
is what the animus needs.

The cosplayers continue to shuffle forward in line
each waiting to pose for a selfie.  Each
politely smiling at the living Harry Potter characters around them,

but not striking up a conversation.

you're my favorite book
pages worn and tear-stained
special moments dog-eared
quotes traced in bright yellow highlighter
notes scribbled in margins
spine torn and aging
cover bent and creased
stains and wrinkles spread throughout
you're my favorite book
I've read you at least one hundred times
I recommend you to my friends over coffee
but only to those who'd appreciate you
only a certain type of mind can appreciate you
understand all your themes and moods
understand the author's ideas and plans
and laugh at all the right moments
you're my favorite book
I carry you in my messenger bag everywhere I go
and I love the way you smell like nostalgia
and that page 46 still has a hot chocolate stain from that one camping trip
where I read you by lantern light under a heavy sleeping bag
and I love the way you feel in my hands
you're my favorite book
but that doesn't mean I don't read others sometimes I'll read another to find it's awful
other times quite fantastic
with battles that make you sweat
and deaths that make you cry
but none of them are you
you're my favorite book
and I suppose you always will be

a year ago, i spent most nights engulfing myself in meadows and forests strictly dreamed up through words.
but today,
i have noticed that words don't flow as easily out of my mind;
as i have no inspiration to write like i did before.
tears don't fall as frequently
and i am starting to wonder if you become less susceptible to pain as you age.
i don't stay up late thinking of things that my mind would have drowned me in, a year ago.
i have accepted the changes of early adulthood and i feel less naive and youthful.
I remember being younger and feeling so misunderstood by adults.
"I mean, they used to be my age" I would think, "they should understand more"
but now i see it
now i feel it.
They mature, whether they meant to or not they
matured and forgot what it was to be young.
And for most, they didn't even see that they changed but i saw it.
I am seeing it everyday.
I see it in myself.
I saw it when i picked up a pencil and minutes passed where no meadows and forests had been dreamed up.
I felt it when i was wrapped in a cocoon of blanket and instead of sadness crippling me, i lay thinking of my next pay check and how i was going to spread it out over two weeks evenly.
now, everyone ages in their own way.
everyone loses their youthfulness in different forms.
i noticed through my lack of creativity and inspiration to write.
and in a sense, i am relieved.
because i don't expend energy over things that don't matter,
i breathe easier now,
i see things clearly,
i am more level-headed.
and even though i may be the adult that doesn't understand the child fully,
i haven't forgotten what it is to be young.
as i search for youth constantly
and pick at my brain until i dream up worlds as easily as i had a year ago so that while i age, i don't forget.
youthfulness is beautiful but i believe aging is too.

Deep within an evil grew.
Unspeakable but true.
A power so strong it seemed
to pull heavens into your fist.
Fury was its name
And hatred was spawned.
Burn them bridges
and bomb them idiots.
The world could do without some ignorance.
you fall back from your delusion
And realize, that the one next to you would then have to burn too.
The dark subsides,
Supplanted by something funny.
Powerless, you seemed in fury
Hopeful, you felt in love.

I seek, I seek
I can't seem to find
A recipe, a cure
to ease my mind

I seek, I seek
I search for a break
A rest, just a minute
Simplicity, peace

I wait, I wait
I wait for a day
I can hide in my mind
It's my way

I seek, I seek
I seek and I find
If you don't choose how you live
You'll be left behind

"Go Slow", I told my life in January
"I want to take this journey at your pace"
"I want to build those bridges again"
"I want to complete you as I would always want"

"Hello!” I heard a call from the near far.  
Was it really a response from the healing heart of February?!
"I hold the right to set your pace"
"I hold the right to bless you sleeps"
“I hold the right to curse you sleeplessness"
“I decide the right for you in everything"

Until the obscene April summer turned up,
It was not life; but the Cyclone’s desire to fell everything en route.
I learned; there might be things to cherish
But would not want to own again

Rains in Kerala carry the rhythms of life
I once again made those paper boats
At my pace, as the 10 year old,
And as July demanded
Life grew deeper within, in that rhythm of rains
Nursing the one who nursed me for long
I learned, there are only cycles in life,
There is only movement in life

The flight took off, despite the pedantic reasons thrown over the tarmac
In that morgue of frozen mummies, I felt the futility of expectations
My Wings of fantasies halted, on top of the panoramic Great Wall
In the arc lights of award night, I enjoyed the pleasure of losing
Walking alone the Washington streets, I found the walks of life...

November comes concealing a lot; it conceive sorrows
It grows a detached attachment within and around you
November reinforces the relativity in everything
Life, love, respect, trust and confidence

I like the reds in December, it's flamboyance
I like the irony of "hope" brought in by this very end!
There are only cycles in life, no gains or losses
There is only movement in life, some forward
And some stuck in the maze and not knowing which way.