Hello, yes I am still alive. Here's a little poem that's been annoying me for a while about Harry and Voldemort. There's a hint of plot but not much, it's a basic harrymort story I guess, but as a poem. It's crap, I know, I was cringing as I wrote it but here it is anyway. Constructive criticism is welcome here.
One step.
Two steps.
He could hear his heartbeat thudding in his chest.
Three steps.
Four steps.
A knife beside a bed.
He hovered near the Dark Lord, body quivering nervously.
The man on the bed stared at him,
He was quiet and accepting.
He lifted the knife carefully and dropped it to the floor.
This wasn't who he was, no way.
He'd never been before.
Slowly and surely, he fell to his knees again.
He cried and sobbed and wondered why:
He hadn't been struck dead.
The man on the bed pulled him close,
Whispering softly to him.
He always did this every time, finally getting through to him.
The boy who lived cried himself dry,
In the arms of his once enemy,
And all the while, Dumbledore laughed, a story brimming with irony.
Death had always been the plan.
The boy, the lord, the followers,
But Harry fell in love too fast, while Dumbledore fumbled needlessly.
The strings were pulled and puppets cut,
The lord paid no attention,
He pulled him close and whispered again,
The incantation to save his enemy.
Until next time,
Riddle~