The chill of the twilight starting autumn creeps in

My mind has been filled with terrible sin

I fell to my knees and preyed in the dirt

The worms and the Gods will feed on my hurt

I hear all the whispers I'm feeling the fright

My call has been heard by the abominus night

I'm the void that you see when you ask from above

Mankind has now seen, and will burn from my love

I've become the darkness that looms in the sky

My wrath is upon you your people shall die

The time has come for carnal feast

I make the change from man to beast

Fangs and claws and unholy fist

Everyone's blood explodes into mist

Delicious are these broken guts

my power feeds on tender cuts

Messiahs bane at midnight hour

Lords of evil grant my power

Look up to the sky and see the moon red

now that I'm god, everyone's dead.

My First Day at Hogwarts
On a Saturday morning,
I woke up in pain.
Perched on top of my head,
Was an owl shaking its mane.

As I focused my glance,
the owl got clearer.
There was something clutched in its beak;
a pale yellow letter.

When I opened it,
words started to bloom,
Mr Y. Vartak,
The inner bedroom.


‘You have a place
in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
Points will be taken for wrong,
and awarded for bravery.’

I showed it to my parents,
Who were not at all surprised.
They were in fact very happy,
I am a wizard I realized!

We took a plane to London,
Visit Diagon Alley.
In a hurry to buy my first wand,
robes and stationery.

It was the first of September,
so we hurried to Kings Cross.
We got to platform nine and three quarters,
after struggling through the chaos.

I had everything in my trunk,
I had nothing more to get.
My parents surprised me,
by giving me an owl as a pet.

I got a seat in the Hogwarts Express,
and put my robes,
There was a boy opposite me,
he was juggling bewitched globes.

We got off the train,
At Hogsmeade Station.
There was an amazing castle,
that was beyond my imagination.

We rowed across the lake,
sitting on boats,
It was getting colder,
so we pulled on our coats

We entered the hall,
Full of eyes.
There was a roof above us,
that represented the vast skies.

There was a dusty hat,
in the middle of a stage,
It had a rip near the brim,
so it looked older than its age.

A professor named Minerva,
Put that hat on my head.
The rip opened like a mouth,
Interesting is what it said.

The Sorting Hat as it was called,
said that he had to think some more,
After a while it yelled:
‘He’ll go in GRYFFINDOR!’

I joined the Gryffindor,
at the Start-Of-Term Feast.
We were so involved I talking,
we cared for our sleep the least.

After the feast, we departed,
for Gryffindor Common Room,
Outside the portrait hole, there was,
a shiny black broom.

I changed from my robes to my nightdress,
lay down watching the dying ember.
My eyelids were getting heavy,
I walked into a deep slumber.

This poem is written by me,
Yash Singh.
Specially written for my favourite,
Joanne Kathleen Rowling.

Every Friday I sit on my balcony.
At 8:00 PM the show starts.
The dark slim dame makes her way
through the stage with shadow-like steps.
Her figure starts a Tchaikovsky composition
while I patiently sit silent on my chair.
A sudden play of the violin enters the stage,
its sober sound accompanied by a high-pitched
clarinet.

Fingers on a harp are heard subsequently,
transforming the night into a frozen wonderland.
The moves she makes are psychedelic, leaving
shadowy smoke trails to follow her body
as she slides across the stage.
Sly smile present.
Her veiled feet tap lightly on the floor with
the grace of black swan in a lake.
Nothing stops her.

Finishing her first act, she moves away
from the stage and changes the track.
Deafening bongs of a cathedral bell
overwhelms the small venue.
A rifting Fender and the banging of drums
quickly give the rise of the next performance.
The dark silhouette returns, her feet tapping
harder while she flings her arms and drops them
for a windmill strum.
Never the conformist, the star moves to the
upper stage.
She lets out a lurid scream,
promising black sensations
to the crowd as she rifts away hell’s bells
for the night.

The mood changes, mellow tones take us
to the past.
Soft vibrations of a saxophone fill the smooth air.
A double bass follows suit, signaling the rest
of the band to start the show.
My darling is waiting.
She grabs the ribbon microphone, her black
sequin dress glistening across the ball room.
Ruby on her lips, she puckers them and
blows a kiss to the audience.  
It’s April in Paris tonight, my lover knows it.  
“Duh-be-duh-be-dee zoot zoot zu.” her jeweled
petals sing while she flings her index finger back
and forth.
All eyes are on my jazz girl, she is Fitzgerald
come again on a snowy canvas.

The song comes to an end and she flawlessly
bows for a standing ovation.
From my booth, I mimic clapping hands.
The wary neighbor giving me the stink eye.
What would she know about fine art?
The silhouette makes her way out of the room,
her each step breaking my heart.  
I say my goodbyes, pickup my binoculars from
the metal railing and wait patiently
for her next show.

Every day
after the pub
I see this tree
With the Jacko lanterns face
On it
Is it carved or
Shove it in
The face haunts
Me
So one day I go visit the Facebook tree
To see for myself
With out driving by it.

Pixie wings spring
In the breeze
Under the electric leaves

They dance all around
Not touching the ground
Spinning and Spinning
All over

The Electric tree glows
As all the pixies come
Home

I sit and stare
And watch
As the Electric Forest
Grows