Alone she weaves her tangled web
Twisting, tying, all amiss
and she sees not the darkened threads
that twine about her wrists.
A single light in a darkened room
one window one mirror, little sight
to the world outside her bower wall
Blurred separation between day and night.
Her head swirls with tangled threads
forgotten thoughts and anguish low
the monotony of a thousand days
left to weave and wind and sew
Sighs escape now from her lips
those ruby lips, once known by kings
now known to only lament and sobs
for what she lost in love-lorn pining.
"Faithless have I been, O father."
she breathes at morning prayers
as pearl beads slip through milk white hands
and dust hangs about the air.
When all is done, and mass is sung
she retires to her cell
once again to sew and weave
her rich and long, sad, tale.
First she finds the pale while thread
and then she finds the blue
And quickly, with her shaking hands
weaves the face she once knew.
She weaves the gown of green she wore
on the fated wedding day
and adds the flaxen hair he praised
When laced with the flowers of May.
At last she finds the golden thread,
but pauses, silent, the room a mess
she lays the golden spool aside
and kneels before the long locked chest.
With trembling hands, and gleaming eyes
she lifts the lid, on the life she once had
A rush of air and dust and mould
and feeling, at once, joyful and sad.
First she takes the bright blue gown
and then she takes the green,
finds the jewels her mother wore
it's all where it should have been.
Within the dusty corner dark,
the twilight fading, sun going down
she sees the gleam of gold once more
and takes from the depths her golden crown.
In the flickers of the candlelight
the jewels they sparkle once again,
And all the memories come rushing back
From childhood days to the kingdom's end.
Tears are falling from her eyes
when again she takes the golden thread
and reverently she weaves the crown
upon the figure's head.
At last she's cut the final string
and takes a step back from the frame
she sees her life before her eyes,
and feels the tears come again.
There Arthur stands, in kingly garb
His soft eyes staring back at her
and in his arms, her younger self,
she remembers, how happy they once were.
To her left stands Lancelot
his shining armor gleaming bright
his pleading gaze finds her again
with the love that turned to blight.
Between these two men she still stands
Two heros, once in brotherhood bound
She chose the Knight above absent King
and three hearts were trampled into the ground.
Memories swirl about her head
as she takes the knife flashing flint,
and drives the blade into the silk
Till every thread once whole, lies rent.
Took a few cues from the Lady of Shallot, plus smatterings of several different Arthurian traditions. It is said that Guinevere joined a convent after Arthur died-- hence the mass. Tapestry making was a common pastime for noble women--I'm not sure about nuns, but it's not as though she were an ordinary nun.
