The chamber of Albus Dumbledore,

Never truly exhibited matter,

It transcended from an aura to another,

From an eye to the mind.

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Within the bloodstream,

Interstellar to the eye,

There rest a memo of the nights,

A canvas of mystical lies,

A pensieve of time.

The hold is called upon to breathe the sea,

A stream of possibilities and dreams,

Named the soul by some,

She fills and drains through each sleep.

The substance is not to be believed,

Not liquid, not gas, not a dream.

The soul is just, asleep,

Floating through the memories.

Albus, Severus and others live through the stone,

Wandering as the gods of unknown,

A sense that elaborates no sense,

Shall weave the universe onto the redemption of each thread.

Sketch by Vaibhav Gupta

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4 thoughts on “Pensieve Of Memories

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