The Struggle in Being a Muggle
Holding a ball-peen hammer.
Trying to ring the bell.
Knowing you must strike now.
Knowing that here is Hell.
There is only work.
There is never pay.
The odds are all against.
Signs lie ,
don’t point the way.
The witches send the fog.
Their plots win out the war.
Realize,
there is no prize.
There is nothing more.
If only this crooked stick
were a magical wand.
I could remove the thick
feeling of being beyond.
But the stick is rotten
and I am forgotten.
When it snaps,
can’t feel pain.
Numb to it all,
not feeling the fall.
Just the pound
of the confounded rain.
Why can’t the tell of a spell
somehow eradicate
the smell of death-knell
in this shell.
We’d no more need to hate.
I would pronounce
“Confundus!”
and there would ensue confusion.
Then you too would renounce
what’s doomed us,
breaking this true illusion.