Opus II
He could not stop for death, so death kindly stopped him.
A great Olympic game was his life, and he knew from the start that he would not win.
No chariot of Apollo, no winged horse of Hercules had he.
Instead he trampled the moss with the feet of ineffable humanity
And where was the trumpet-call to herald his start
But eons away, sung by a cruel angel in hell's dark.
He bore a torch on his journey, upon which two mountain-gods laid claim
And when the torch-flame did waver as he stumbled, both gods did him blame.
Like Prometheus he skirted the thunderbolts that fell
As the gods roared and assembled their forces to duel.
But Severus Snape's allegiance was independent of these fools,
Who thought of him as both volatile and docile; the perfect self-sacrificing tool.
His torch was lit for one soul only, that of an ancient doe
Whose banner gleamed silver and green, red and gold.
But carry it he did, though his journey through the dark woods,
Ravines, and mountain passes was littered by thoughts of his "ought not"s and "should"s.
His selfish, selfless run was tireless, consistent, and well-paced
Though he never once expected that he might win the race.
Perhaps if he punished the body enough, he hoped
The chance of redemption for the sins with which he was soaked
Would be better, but even this meager prize
Was one he could only see through a set of too-familiar green eyes.
And when all was done, when the Olympics were ending,
When he had fulfilled his purgatory and his immortality was pending
He knew he would be prostrate on the crags, well-chained in punishment
His innards eaten out by a phoenix and a snake, a warning against dissent.
Did he mind? He didn't know; time for him had stopped long ago
Before he had realized that his job was to run behind the flow
And before his thoughts of superiority had been inversed
To be replaced with masochism far more perverse.
Dashing away to sacrifice himself for himself,
It was the journey's last bend that he most felt
Would be the hardest to successfully pass.
What gratitude he experienced at long last
When the Moirae cut his silver-gold life thread
In the midst of his running himself near-dead.
While he struggled to balance himself on his sore feet
He realized he wore the soles of Hermes' sandals fleet
But even thus advantaged, was no more steps on his run;
The mountain-gods no longer blocked his way to the sun.