Be Not Afraid

As the blaze greedily licks up my calves

I will do nought but stare down,

la Pucelle d’Orléans, they say, has fallen.


I have not fallen.


I went willingly

with mon Seigneur as my Savior,

I fear no evil

for death is at my side.


The smoke billows around me.

I scream my ferver,

challenging the sultry flames

that whisper between my legs—sweet sin

of hope, if I deny—Mon Dieu,

why hath thou forsaken me?

I am ready to cast off the fetters

binding me in this flesh.


Must I be so brave,

must I burn so bright?


I welcomed the warmth,

a kiss from mon Seigneur,

purification within the miasma

of charred skin and starving lungs.

Yet a kiss can deceive, and now

my essence ablaze for thousands

to view, the fire suckles at my insides

searing what I left for mon Dieu d’amour.

His cobalt eyes paralyze me,

my flesh entirely too pliant

to the gluttony of his

blistering gratification.

His scorching legs straddle

my waist, pinning me down.

Immobile, I desire an end.

My demise at hand,

I pray for strength,

whimpering and yearning,

pleading for climax.


Perfumed and cocooned,

the prismatic faces swimming

amidst titian tendrils,

as my eyes become murky and dim.

An apostate I have become,

the fever satisfied.

I’ll smile as mon Seigneur welcomes me home,

if only so they don’t know that I am afraid.



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