A pawn, a faceless entity,
A player in Dumbldore's game, who had lost his sense of identity,
Twisted into shape, by vitriol and hate,
Just a piece of bait,
For the Dark Lord.
He was the Joker, and Dumbledore the King,
Left when he wasn't needed, to die like a bird without a wing,
He had been putty, in his leader's hands,
Moulded into a puppet, only to be ripped apart when faced with Time's ever-moving sands.
He was a tool,
And such a fool,
But now he was past his use,
And his death to be his old mentor's new duce.
He should be bitter, and so full of rage,
But he was just drained at this stage and age.
He was an actor on stage, taking his final bow,
Tonight was his last show, and its audience it would wow.
Harry Potter was like a Firework,
Life short but bright,
Tinged by the darkness, of Dumbledore's fight,
He soul's light was an explosion,
That showed no signs of erosion.
Harry Potter left the world with a fight,
As the Earth was touched by the Morning's light,
He took the darkness of Voldemort with him in Death,
And they so they both died, haloed by Avada Kedavra's deathly green wreath.
