This is your grace you’ve given the warmth of your body for. The immortal beauty carved of stone the Romans so desperately treasure. Yours is the face that so many seek, the inescapable gleam of your eyes they have such difficulty defining, enough to make them tremble and pull madly at their hair in a frustrated rage. Your voice, the calming echo for the bereft, their childhood fantasies smeared all over their hollow smiles, as their image of Joan of Arc regal and fair waits lonely in the sunny dew drop fields of fairy tales.  They challenge these fantasies as they sift through the posterized stares of an icon, her fuzzy-headed vacancy stamped in black and white for the silver ink of time to trace forever, with nary a crease of age in your face but a scratch in the celluloid, and being only forgotten in the dusty mortal minds of dreamers.

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