AH! THE STOIC
Joan of Arc had her reasons : those ramparts to
be broached, all that crazy language and song,
the flames that pierced a soul. If I were her keeper,
I probably would have gone first. Now, there are
nothing but remnants; that story re-circulates in
a hundred different versions and tongues. The very
idea of Visionary Joy and things floating around -
these days would most definitely have the name of a
syndrome (check with your employer - sometimes
this is covered. But, oh no, flames first lick the feet,
travel up legs, caress thighs, cook that lovely meat.
Dear Joan, standing still, not a move out of place.
All those angelics coming down, to carry you away,
what did they know of nation, state and home? I
miss you, like air, like a flagellent missing his
whip, like a horse, racing down that tired track,
with really no legs at all.
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