Soulless black eyes,
beady and heavy with sleep,
watching from behind the curtain.
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.
A/N: It was not even supposed to be a poem about Severus Snape, but as I wrote, this came up. I didn't quite like the ending, as I would've wanted to describe his misery in a different way, but this is, unfortunately all I came up with.
Happy New Year, by the way!