Alas, why do I feel this way?
My mind entranced by a maiden so fair!
My thoughts she consumes most every day,
This maiden with beauty so rare.
Though it feels like real love, I fear 'tis but faux,
For I am but fifteen years old;
Real, true love I do not yet know,
It's fullness I've yet to behold.
Though somewhat I know her, 'tis not enough quite
For this love to be aught but mirage.
Though oft do we meet, and oft do we write,
I'm attracted much to her visage.
It's not just her looks, it's her nature also;
Her good personality.
But still, I beleive there's a long way to go
Before love's actuality.
Alas and alack, for she knows of it not,
Which I have not the courage to mend.
So for now, I shall simply admire in thought,
And pose as a casual friend.
But now, you may wonder of whom I speak,
So before this poem is done,
I shall give you the answer you seek:
Fair Guinivere, you are the one.