The warp disrupting velveteen weft.
A scratch, jolting the lyric out of its groove.
Simmering boil, the bubbles roiling
Rippling, bursting,
chaos-causing.
Burnt treacle on pristine chrome.
Sapling, bent and bowed.
(yet how they flinch when it quivers)
Blank page, writ with invisible ink
Screwed parchment unfurling under friendship’s freckled face.
A winding corridor,
snaking down.
A fist pounding; its release tormented.
Restless fury, a vengeful flood of tears.
The thud of cold steel meeting untilled soil.
A cloak, heavy with rain.
And then ...
He is the light trickling through pinpricks of a veil.
He is the irrepressible spirit.
A laugh that lifts and lilts.
The canvas now bright, the picture unfinished,
brushstrokes raw, imperfect,
Still askew.
He is Harry.