If Lord Voldemort desired, as well he might,
To catch a little circle, and increase its plight,
There’s a vanishingly low probability
Owing to his questionable humanity,
That he’d unleash the Cruciatus curse
And twist it into Fortunatus’ purse,
Then capture the universe in it…
I scourged the past for lessons learned,
Forged a canon for tomorrow
An austere philosophy to be
My beacon in the snow.
There was order within the hallowed rim,
Without, scalding friction!
Knowledge I gained aplenty,
But little reconciliation.
For my inspiration was not another’s;
His truth wasn’t mine,
No detour to empathy, except
To soften my sacred line.
To labor for an asymptotic peace,
Where neither person sinned
As, one by one, the ramparts shatter
In a contrarian wind.