Like a ship in the midst of a ragging storm,
Did his feet sink into this desert sand without form.

Deeper through the thrive of each despairing step,
Uncertain if his soul will taste the glory of divine help.

He had one petition, a petition for solid ground,
yet all that was; was sinking sand.

His voice echoed the seclusion of a dying man,
Handicapped, like a football coach with a 13 match ban.

“Oh!!!” he cries, “here comes the wind again”
Slowly and calmly rising, as up a sliding plain.

It hit him harder than a truck running through a wobbly wall;
It was a mighty ocean tide, that couldn’t wait to fall.

“Fresh water, springing out of sinking sand” He said in the dismay
of his realization that indeed, No Potter can mold life out of clay!

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