Inspired by Joshua Radin's 'Winter'.
I own neither the song nor the works of J.K Rowling.
Victoire had always known who she was.
It had been drummed into her splendid sparkling diadem and braided between the lustrous ravels of gilded hair since she could hold a mirror in her perfectly pudgy fist.
She was the fluttering crimson cape, glinting spurs and frayed tassels of an ephemeral, transitory matador.
(Violently engaging but eternally inaccessible)
She was the dense, pregnant air before the final thunderous roll of summer rain.
(Heavy with the promise of sweet relief but humid and overwhelmingly close in the moment)
She was the last page of a careworn, cherished book, held together purely with the delicate gossamer of individual interpretation.
(The crushing gluttony of completion but the sinking, opaque ache of finding an equivalent body of work)
She was both the resplendent streaming sun, bursting brashly through a hastily flung open kitchen window and the brazen rays gaudy glare.
And thus she was perpetually doomed to be a crashing crescendo of a woman, simultaneously splendiferous and yet too garish to ever be more than an intrinsically meaningless metaphor.
And so she resided, in the amplified confusion of magnificent hyperboles and damming distortion.
But yet into this chasm rode Icarus, drunk on the exaggeration and ornamentation of her shakespearean tragedy.
(For Teddy's charred chameleonic wings knew no blaze but hers)
~Fin~