A/N: Poems into Stories Competition, Sonnet 3: Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest, William Shakespeare. Voldermort's time.
A Larger Poetry Collection
170. Fearing Death
Changes that come aren't short and sweet
but barely visible like the fangs from a snake's jaw
biting and dripping poison through one's veins
And whatever snake had bitten him, it had been long ago
and the scar scabbed over, absence deformed.
There was none of that face of birth, that potential youth
that could have marched ahead, chin up, to his prime
But instead, he has cowered in the face of prosperity,
of death, so full of loathing, that bitterness which
is a forked tongue without poison within.
Now he lashes forth, but once death seizes his face
it will be nothing…but a lost memory in the dark.