Sitting under the well worn brass statue of Joan of Arc, hoping for her peace and strength and Purity, even as I find myself thinking of eros, of passion, of Stephanie.
Joan heard angels, knew the path, knew what was asked of her. I hear only static and silence, wild spinning into the night, looking for a war I can’t win and never ends.
Most of us aren’t chosen, the angels are chills in the wind, shadows on the street corner. Stephanie fills my heart with hope and fire. Joan never fell in love. I fall love all to easily. Or lust. Double helix of flesh and soul.
These feelings for Stephanie are the light in the darkness, the one beautiful feeling that stays in the fear and hate and mistrust, the children of god with drawn knives and blood on their lips
Holiness and terror, love and falling. I fell from grace. I fell in love. And her kindness and friendship shows me what I can yet be, if Satan doesn’t break me.
Joan was not seen as beautiful; she was seen as holy light. They saw a young woman but not base desire. Her light shined through. It was what touched her rough soldiers hearts.
May I see Stephanie’s light, the innocent joy of a soft touch. May my eyes catch her light. May this grace grow in my stony heart. May I be holy and brave in what is to come.