Saint Joan sits at her father's wooden desk,
the room reeking of old cigarettes and a life misspent.
An orange light invades through back-lit curtains.
Disembodied voices float in from beyond that feeble partition,
daring her to finally redefine the reality she serves.
Her hands bound by the four letter labels to which she clings,
pointless platitudes which evaporate into meaninglessness,
once her thick the cloud of manufactured ambiguity lifts.

Outside, the streets were once paved with potential;
pretty little geometric shapes cordoned off by yellow caution tape.
A home, built for her out there, has been neglected and forgotten.
Children, a husband and a couple of dogs sleeping on the porch;
a dream terminated by unwavering distrust,
she would never allow herself to feel vulnerable and revealed.

Saint Joan sits, writing letters to people with which she can no longer speak.
She can not bare to lift her eyes to the mirror on the opposing wall,
the pale, lonely face betrays the scars of jagged memories and promises--
given like spiteful gifts dangled just beyond where her fingers can reach.
Another medicated night alone, reduced to nothing but unattainable needs--
that all consuming fire which turned
an old growth forrest into charred bushes and fallen leaves.
She has grown too old for redemption and like a rose sprouted from poison dirt,
her leaves are sick and wilted, her stem bending towards the earth.

She cannot continue without those who have passed beyond the vail;
those who have taken their final bow and climbed down
from the stage of the tired little marionette play acted out in her mind.
They've retired to a sparkling cottage somewhere up in the Hollywood Hills
where they laugh and joke about the better days, but her name is never mentioned.
They invade her dreams and their voices linger in her thoughts;
nothing but echos in an empty room and shadows dancing on the wall.
She has exempted herself from living, she's been forgotten by the universe,
reduced to nothing but these forlorn letters scribbled out at a wooden desk
and bathed in that radiant orange light.

10/13/2009

Posted on 10/13/2009
Copyright © 2024 Alex Chambers