Bess

Queen Elizabeth I during her days of captivity in the court of her half sister Mary.

To seek peace in a place so filled with chaos,

To know God in a world so bloodied,

For blood is what is comes down to,

The blood of my mother,

A harlot and a witch,

The blood of my sister,

Who is naught but a crusader in silk,

And the blood of my womb,

Constantly contested,

For nothing is considered sacred,

In a court so small,

Yet so grand in number,

It seems the world outside of us,

Disappears among the feathers,

The sweet tongued courtiers,

Nothing but hungry crows,

With beady eyes,

Watching,

Waiting,

For a single wound to show,

In my youth, I thought myself strong,

A saint in the making,

But now,

Hidden in captivity,

Among the most beautiful of England,

Haunted by the hag that is her,

I am nothing more than a face,

A head to a spider that weaves a web too large,

For even God himself to handle.