Joan of Arc,
it seems,
was insane.

though, a historian would say this in a nicer,
or more accurate,
way.
they might say
“eccentric,”
if they admired her,
or “schizophrenic”
if they were principled
and rational.
but,
what a way
to describe a saint.

who could blame them, though,
for not
describing her
as she was.

this new world
doesn’t need
the fervent,
the passionate,
the incredible.
anymore.

they’ve been proven wrong.
there is a real world
and a false one.

she wasn’t
a fiery queen,
but only a mad girl,
perhaps a publicity stunt,
who stumbled
in oversized armor,
and burned.
It was surely
horrible.

I sometimes consider myself
one of the old
passionate ones,
by birth.
but, I’ve been twisted by the new world.
and its hard to clearly see
the universe’s cold, blind face
and ignore it.

I try to make the world feel alive;
the passion comes in waves
and I convert myself,
sometimes.
but, the fall from grace
is always hard.

it’d be easier
to be a nihilist
and sneer
at a sunset.
“Oh, the old horseman who rode against it
is long dead,
if he ever was alive.
We’re smarter now.
It was just a chemical canvas
the rider rode across
and the rays of light
that feel on his visored face,
probably gave him melanoma,
and stole him away.”

but, Joan of Arc,
oh,
is someone I’ve always loved,
and she makes me wonder
if I’m wrong.

If I was alive long ago,
I couldn’t ever be the one
to say,
with a steady face,
“the world is this”
and make it so,
with the hearts of men
held truly in my hands.

but I wouldn’t watch Joan from the distance.
I would rise
from my sorry slumber
and walk from the fields where I toiled,
to die
by her side.

It wouldn’t be for france
or the cause.
I would jump up to die for anything,
as long as it was justified.

I would die for her
and the humanity revealed,
in her flushed cheeks
and bright, sharp eyes,
that made kings and queens
drop to their knees,
beggars stand to their feet,
and lost souls weep.

and among the gathered army’s pulsating heat,
I would shout, unheard,
into the roaring horde
“my god,
there is no such thing
as a simple peasant
or yet another life lost.”
we would stand in a line as gods,
our skin touching,
and we would run and clash
and our tears and cries
and blood and guts
would mix,
and the single, soaring soul
would survive.

based on what I’ve read,
the battle would be brutal,
face to face carnage
that make our advanced car bombs,
and drones
seem like sweet treats and relief.
though I know plenty alive who can testify,
in forever marred voices
of shock and surprise,
that these are also
terrible machines.

but, though I’d be horrified,
holding a bloody club
and carrying
my broken body,
I’d turn to her
holding the standard,
atop her horse’s swift stride
and know this was all life.
she would turn,
her eyes burning through me,
and I’d stand still,
as her words ring through the field,
strewn with ripped and misplaced limbs,
and make me belief
all the horror fit
and we’d rise above it.

if, at the end of it all, I was alive,
I would rise
and follow,
even as the enemy captures her and tries
to crush her pride
and the leaders of her country
leave her side,
until I burn
with and only for
her,
with fire in my eyes.

now, this world I live in,
is different.
we see all causes as already lost
and sometimes waiting to die,
is the best option we’ve got.

but,
I want to be led
to my death
and be right.
I want to believe,
without lying to myself.

will there ever be another saint,
who will make me rise
from this dreary dream?

if the world has already taken,
my one and only queen,
at least she died satisfied,
at least her ashes
still filter through my dreams.