Inspired by Benjamin Francis Leftwich's cover of 'When You Were Young.'
I own neither the song nor the works of J.K Rowling.
Her mistakes were piling up, of that she was sure, eternally aided by the fickle organ pulsing frantically inside her cavernous chest.
She had tattooed exaggerations and embellishments into her skin, the metallic laceration of another perforation dulled by repeated experience.
Too late she had sought out the dreamers and believers, determined to bleed blood from their mineralised hearts, already hardened by crushing maturity and compressing reality.
She had lamented the lack of Princes and thus flung herself into the rocky wake of each unscrupulous Knave, spurred on by the promise of impenetrably peaceful ivory towers and halcyon ever-afters.
She had forgotten that it was not the Jack with which the Princess blindly gallops into the sunset with.
And with every passing Knight, her previously untroubled castle crumbled until little was left but the winding path leading to the all-eclipsing oblivion of 'Forever'.
For it had been built on the basis of precarious promises and pale affirmations of whimsical, capricious love.
Neither of which withstand the test of cruel, unyielding loneliness and habitual self-obsession.
Unbeknownst to Lavender she had been named from the Latin derivation 'to wash.'
And even further from her comprehension was the fact that her practiced ritual of cleansing away each miscalculation of a suitor was far more appropriate than she would ever appreciate.
But she didn't have time to ponder pre-determined etymological fates.
Not today anyways.
~Fin~