Permanent damage
seems to be done.
By words that were said,
by the absence of some.
An incurable tumor
afflicts the heart.
Insufferable to bear.
Impossible to rip apart.
A cloud of doubt
hides away the moon.
Like a shadow of the end,
a premonition of doom.
Surgery is required
or maybe a wiccan spell.
Is it a curse or an illness?
It's too early to tell.
A fear has set in
like first frost on a lake.
This coldness that creeps
too persistent to shake.
There's a dread floating now
as spilt oil upon water,
refusing to dissolve
or live with each other.
This scar on the soul,
still fresh enough to bleed,
those spiteful insults
must have done the deed.
Sectumsempra of Snape
is cast upon my mind.
Slashing sharp memories
at angles of all kind.
The death of this is looming
as an army on the horizon.
The worst of it is brewing,
even worse is yet to come.
