I took a walk with Joan Of Arc tonight, she shows up at my door on autumn nights and asks me to hold her hand, and show her the world she never got to know.
Tonight we walked on the Promenade, her hand squeezing mine as she looked out at the harbor and all the lights, the wind from the fifteenth century blowing her short blonde hair. She was wearing skinny jeans and ugg boots, and a sweatshirt with a French tricolor flag. She looked so tiny, so petite, so pure, that I wished I could have traveled back six centuries and saved her innocent life.
Later on we lay on my bed, the only light in the house a single candle in a blue glass cup, it cast moonshadows on the walls and ceiling while I pulled the covers up over us and pulled her so close to me. And I kissed her lips, and I could taste the burning straw you cowardly bastards put at her feet, and I could taste the oil you smeared on her white robe to make her burn faster, and I hope to hell you're all burning now.
And I hope the devil is giving you every last damn thing you deserve....
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