The chamber of Albus Dumbledore,
Never truly exhibited matter,
It transcended from an aura to another,
From an eye to the mind.
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