rage and recovery

i am sorry, my dear lancelot

guenivere knows now

that chasing lancelot

was a fools game

and that his love was nothing more

than worship and fear 

and the all-consuming wish to forget.

and guenivere knows

that chasing lancelot 

may have ruined everything,

and that the kingdom may never recover

from the carnage of her mistake.

but guenivere knows,

despite the shame that burns 

with the admission,

that is was never about lancelot

or the love he couldn't give,

the love he dangled over her head

like a carrot to a horse.

all along, underneath guenivere's sadness

and her confusion and her want,

arthur's image was buried. 

because arthur broke guenivere

and his rage destroyed her heart

and his fear tore a hole in her chest

and left her on the floor to rot,

and lancelot came in at the right moment,

and showed guienivere the love she so desperatley

wished arthur would give her.

but lancelot was chasing ghosts

just as much as guienivere,

and their moans haunted their minds

and tore them apart.

lancelot, my dear,

guienivere wishes she could

be the queen you deserve

and she wishes that you could be

the king to her kingdom,

but arthur's shadow is too bright

and his laughter is too loud

and his smile is too sure,

and we both know that 

this will ruin us.