Lavender, the dreams of her past impressed
upon her with certain things stressed.
Not much but some in her bowels smoldered
within her and chimed on her shoulder
with the diction of long ago it told her.
She was entranced and entrenched
while wallowing in her stench
in a solitude she couldn't wrench
and from a restlessness she couldn't bench.
And in the morning it wouldn't die.
From the depths of its envelop she couldn't cry,
but in the midst of the carnival she felt spry
as if every breadth beyond, she could fry.
Every movement sweltered under an internal sun
as every volition was won
with the step of a step of gamboling fun:
every tick of a switch in her was at a run.
She licked her lips with a sliver
of a gash that was delivered
on her tongue as it opened like a liver.
A descent of a swallow gleamed a shiver
to enliven her hands as quivers.
Lavender, the ebullient mistress, supple thing
has raked her mind back in order to sing
about her days at Hogwarts she's gleaned,
then to an horizon yet to be seen.
