Barely any fall, gone straight to winter.

I close my hand on nothing, medal I sent her.

St. Joan, brave and faithful, to the very end.

I wonder if there’s some of that to lend.


I think of an old lover, a chill April morn.

I think of a pretty model, her picture torn

From a fashion magazine, to gain her power.

I think of the magic my fear let go sour.


A train to Charlotte, God knows what to.

Her tattered hoodie was a midnight blue.

St. Joan, I want your surety and soft grace.

In heaven you will touch my weeping face.



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