Musings of a frustrated poet
Fairytale
Guinevere knew
as well as Isolde,
of a club with members
named Juliet.
They had love,
misplaced,
out of time,
where the accidental graze
of fingers across skin
could make the world expand,
then collapse.
It could not continue,
It could not cease.
And so, clasping hands,
they danced,
with infinite joy,
and simultaneous pain.
Balancing,
On the twisted ellipse
Of fate’s own design.