Joan of Arc, with her blonde pixie cut
and slim frame, in t-shirt, leggings,
walks down a modern Paris street.
She is cold, as the sun fades,
as the day ends, as the season changes,
and all seems to want to die.
Her Lord’s Enemy Nietzsche talked
of eternal recurrence, and, damn, goddamn,
if it does seem like that’s so now.
A young couple, both Joan’s age,
walk hand in hand down the street,
the girl’s head on the boy’s shoulder.
They are tender, sweet, still innocent.
Joan knows the boy will be killed in the war.
Joan knows the girl will be never fall in love after.
Rich men, cruel men, who speak of holiness,
crush the dreams of children, of the world,
and so many faithful cheer them on.
Joan sits by the Seine, as night is here,
and she needs rest, as her, the angels,
all the Children of God fight a battle that feels lost.
Why have they fought so long, so hard?
History repeats itself bitterly, endlessly.
People when not embrace the Godly Shard in them.
Ghosts of her friends, of her comrades,
of God’s now passed children, are close,
but not as close as the fires being kindled by greed.