"... severus snape."

Black greasy hair,
hanging around a face,
a face of waxy skin.

Lips set in a thin line,
brows furrowing in a scowl,
heavy lines creasing the skin.

Words of fury,
snapping at the dunderheads.

Calloused hands by years of work,
long thin fingers made to the finer arts of potion,
chopping angrily at the rots.

'All a facade.'
He whispers to himself,
watching the flame flicker.

Burning liquid trailing down his throat,
stripping him of his mask,
leaving him vulnerable and weak.

No longer hiding,
he sits by himself,
trying to drown in the numbness,
that can bring him no harm.

Kommentarer

Kommentera inlägget här:

Namn:
Kom ihåg mig?

E-postadress: (publiceras ej)

URL/Bloggadress:

Kommentar:

Trackback
RSS 2.0