A/N This one may actually continue if I can dig up some more of my poems that may relate to JKR's wonderful world :)
When even the street lights are out
And you can't see your hand from your face;
The darkness will swallow the loudest of shouts
And slowly will quicken your pace.
The light at your back now feels warm,
Behind you now feeling like home.
You can't--though you want nothing more--now return.
You can't help but feel you've been thrown.
And you don't know just who you will be
When this dark stretch of road comes to end,
For there's plenty of things in the dark you can't see,
And they'll push at your strength 'till it bends.
But don't lose your hope on this road,
Even though on your hope it will feed.
For here in the dark, though you carry your load,
There's no telling where it will lead.
I look down at the wrinkled old parchment, with my words of fear in gentle cursive now scrawled on it. That was weird.
One minute I'm thinking of the frighteningly uncharted future, and the next thoughts are down on paper. In rhyme. In meter and rhyme. Really, just weird.
Though it is strangely satisfying to see my words in ink. Something more organized, more tangible, than the jungle composing my brain.
I have a sudden urge to show Harry my work. He would understand exactly where I come from. He would know.
I have to remind myself, as I do so often now, that Harry is not here. And that he could be anywhere, for all I know.
I wish I could show him my poem, and tell him how much we all miss him, and appreciate his deeds (whatever they are).
I wish I could tell him not to lose hope. None of us have.