​Jeanne d’Arc, La Pucelle d’Admission, Passe Le Jugement Tel Qu'elle Est Parmi Ses Troupes

I’ve been told my voice is ink, seeping into pages,

Destroying careless thoughts, tattooing idealistic

Believers into the margins.

I’ve been written into the seams of

Tomes, tombs; I watch their colors crash into my hands

Collapse. Crumble.

Like Joan of Arc taking New Orleans

I find myself out of my element.

Here I tread on tired souls, tire soles, to find my way home.

Como El Cid, mi vistoso las arcas están llenas de decepción, así

I write poetry in languages long dead,

(They taste like honey and smell bitter-sweet)

and sing in scribbled love notes

(They sound rapturous, singing me to sleep)

I am told “Wishful thinking has no place here...

Look before you. Grab your coffee mug.

You’ll know the truth.”

I’ve held my hand out only to be pushed away each time;

Now I evade, explain, to keep from maiming

Everything I hold dear. I clutch in my fist

to my chest to create a better tomorrow.

Here I make my stand against British infantry men

116 years have been far too long

I soar empty handed through battles long waged

My seams are torn, pages scattered

My story has been left open

For you to conclude.

This poem is about: 
Me

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