Post by darkaus on Aug 21, 2007 0:37:10 GMT -8
Ode to Severus Snape
There was little to feel, but in feeling he'd reel, and that reeling was more than a person could stand.
At least this did he think--at that moment and brink--when his life lay exposed to His cruel icy hand.
So he let forth a sigh, silent, under the lie, as his lips and his tongue played their part and made art.
It was mockery, true, but what else could he do? he was useless in death, so till death did he part...
He would lie, and conceal, and betray and befriend. He would pull every string till he met with his end.
And that end, when it came; perhaps it would bring peace. Or an end to this war that no magic could cease.
He remembered a flame, young, a spirited dame, who had long stirred affection and longing within.
He remembered their fight, who was wrong, who was right. That look she had cast when it seemed she would win.
He had bled for her, yes. That was hardly a guess, for the blood was as corporal in emotion as flesh.
Now the fire on her hair and those eyes free of care haunted his darker moments, and unraveled the mesh of his own inner calm, with his iron rod poise...
Oh how life had been simpler, when they all had been boys....
There was anger there too. little less than the new...for the memories stung like forgotten old scars.
They still lingered within, taunting, tormenting him; and he saw the world still through those old mental bars.
It was James and his friends that belittled him then, and the seeds they had sown bloomed again and again.
Like a vine pain, and hate, wove him fast to his fate. He would kneel to the cobra. He would fall to Hells Gate.
And the mark that had left was not cast on his arm. It had sunk deeper still.
Where it dwelled caused more harm.
On the night when she died... that night, when she died...
On the night she had died he had begged, broken, cried.
He had bashed in each wall, torn down every locked door and he scoured his soul, dug deep to the core...
...As he burned through the brambles of ego and pride, he found rips in his spirit, his soul's suicide.
The corruption within was no longer denied, and his steadfastness faltered.
Old loyalties died.
Still there came a lament to his lips... a repent. A mantra of pain, an attempt to implore...
What was done has been done, my god... what have I done? To poor Lilly... oh Lilly, what did she die for?
When he said he would spare her, what did she die for? Ah this blood on my hands! Ah this oath that I swore!
It was grief and hearts pain that broke Voldemort's chain as his serpent revolted, fled into the night.
But he ran not to die--but to live--and to lie. To betray and befriend, to take part in the fight.
For he'd now make amends; offer aid to her friends, place himself into service of a much varied sort.
For her loss he would spy; and he swore not to die, until vengeance was brought upon Lord Voldemort.
...There was little to feel, but he felt he would reel, and that reeling was more than a person could stand.
At least this he did think, at that moment and brink, when his life was revoked to His cruel icy hand.
Broken and bleeding he let forth a moan... With his last strength he fought it, there was no time to groan.
His lips and his tongue had a plea to impart.
One silvery strand... placed in Potter's young hand. It held all the answers.
A strange peace in his heart...
It was agony... true, as his breaths came too few. He was useless in death, and to death he'd depart...
He had lied, and concealed, and betrayed every friend. He had pulled every string. He had well earned this end.
And this end, when it came; perhaps it would bring peace...
...Then he died, for a world in which this war would cease.
There was little to feel, but in feeling he'd reel, and that reeling was more than a person could stand.
At least this did he think--at that moment and brink--when his life lay exposed to His cruel icy hand.
So he let forth a sigh, silent, under the lie, as his lips and his tongue played their part and made art.
It was mockery, true, but what else could he do? he was useless in death, so till death did he part...
He would lie, and conceal, and betray and befriend. He would pull every string till he met with his end.
And that end, when it came; perhaps it would bring peace. Or an end to this war that no magic could cease.
He remembered a flame, young, a spirited dame, who had long stirred affection and longing within.
He remembered their fight, who was wrong, who was right. That look she had cast when it seemed she would win.
He had bled for her, yes. That was hardly a guess, for the blood was as corporal in emotion as flesh.
Now the fire on her hair and those eyes free of care haunted his darker moments, and unraveled the mesh of his own inner calm, with his iron rod poise...
Oh how life had been simpler, when they all had been boys....
There was anger there too. little less than the new...for the memories stung like forgotten old scars.
They still lingered within, taunting, tormenting him; and he saw the world still through those old mental bars.
It was James and his friends that belittled him then, and the seeds they had sown bloomed again and again.
Like a vine pain, and hate, wove him fast to his fate. He would kneel to the cobra. He would fall to Hells Gate.
And the mark that had left was not cast on his arm. It had sunk deeper still.
Where it dwelled caused more harm.
On the night when she died... that night, when she died...
On the night she had died he had begged, broken, cried.
He had bashed in each wall, torn down every locked door and he scoured his soul, dug deep to the core...
...As he burned through the brambles of ego and pride, he found rips in his spirit, his soul's suicide.
The corruption within was no longer denied, and his steadfastness faltered.
Old loyalties died.
Still there came a lament to his lips... a repent. A mantra of pain, an attempt to implore...
What was done has been done, my god... what have I done? To poor Lilly... oh Lilly, what did she die for?
When he said he would spare her, what did she die for? Ah this blood on my hands! Ah this oath that I swore!
It was grief and hearts pain that broke Voldemort's chain as his serpent revolted, fled into the night.
But he ran not to die--but to live--and to lie. To betray and befriend, to take part in the fight.
For he'd now make amends; offer aid to her friends, place himself into service of a much varied sort.
For her loss he would spy; and he swore not to die, until vengeance was brought upon Lord Voldemort.
...There was little to feel, but he felt he would reel, and that reeling was more than a person could stand.
At least this he did think, at that moment and brink, when his life was revoked to His cruel icy hand.
Broken and bleeding he let forth a moan... With his last strength he fought it, there was no time to groan.
His lips and his tongue had a plea to impart.
One silvery strand... placed in Potter's young hand. It held all the answers.
A strange peace in his heart...
It was agony... true, as his breaths came too few. He was useless in death, and to death he'd depart...
He had lied, and concealed, and betrayed every friend. He had pulled every string. He had well earned this end.
And this end, when it came; perhaps it would bring peace...
...Then he died, for a world in which this war would cease.
