The Angel of Dark, The Pain of Song, and the Night-
~ The guardian angel of Severus Snape ~
He listened to the sound of his harp,
He listened to the strings trembling,
In the most passionate way,
In the light of a new-found gibbous,
Waning moon that had not been for days.
As the moon came out at last, it lighted,
A world framed by a shadow,
That sagged like the cloak he wore which somehow comforted,
The pain of flesh away.
Still the moon came out and rested,
Glowing gently and softly beckoning,
To the forlorn man who was resting,
Beneath the darkened, starry sky yet still-
Darkened.
He placed all of the light into his pocket,
And hid it away,
So that he still, desperately needed,
To see that gibbous moon.
Pain had ripped it away.
For his black orbs glistened eerily,
Since they were ghosting,
Shadows of past torments,
That sat within the pale face of a moon.
His own moon-
Was a face bathed in shadows,
Cluttered in the darkest given vision,
Since the color of black enchanted,
Many- but, still, this man was- no more than forty.
His eyes, not sparkling. Gleaming perhaps-
Eerily, drawn into his soul, reflecting,
Towards the gibbous moon,
Not seeing it,
Just, his torments,
As they lay shadowed,
Within his pearlescent face.
Years had fled from his lithe form,
Which tensed beneath a storm unwarranted.
But nonetheless, his broken form created,
Waves of muscular tension,
Which emitted fire-cakes,
A haven of mysterious semblances,
That shot off into the night.
A bystander, watching from afar,
Saw sparks drifting about his figure,
In a beautiful shower of-
Flame.
And no one-
No one could really tell not a single soul would tell it-
That this man, who had weathered the world on his shoulder,
Had finally been beaten . . .
He had not really been beaten.
The man beneath the shadow of bleak,
Was a warrior.
On this night beneath the stars and the gibbous moon a'waning,
Sat a man resting upon his knees beneath the fireworks of his mind watching-
Seeing nothing at first glance save for his inner strife,
Yet at some loving passionate, tender point he stopped,
And those eerily glinting, ghosting eyes sending cakes of fire,
And he was showered with sparks.
His inner strength grew out of tension,
And the black shadow of his cloak and the world,
Was lifted,
By the fire of the inner music,
Which played through his trodden breast,
That awakened, became enlivened,
As the other one in the distance,
Watched, green eyes, beautiful sparkling attractors,
Rent with a tear.
Severus Snape's guardian angel,
Would never leave him,
For at least,
His life was only meant to be,
Enrapturing.
Filled, with love?
Perhaps not.
But all was quiet,
Deathly quiet on that night 'neath the moon,
And a peace had befallen,
Through a little woman,
His savior,
Guardian,
Caregiver.
Should anyone question his loyalties,
Seek that gentle look,
Sending music throughout his breast-
In the forest glades.