No Heroes for Women

I know saying so,

  That there are no true heros in men for women,
reflects the cynical backslide against hope and tradition...

But as I have subconsciously waited for a Jungian Father to return,

  My home reflected statistics knowing more of myself,
than I had yet and for so long, to understand.

Daddy came and gone,
and turning for love, to women,
Solved no issues for me,
in the seeking and creation of a home.

the same would go for love, in men.

There have been no heroes.  Only love, sometimes torrentially passionate,
and the spectrum of miracles and disappointments,
sharing a body.

That body is me,
  was me.

I

was a dreamer too.

I still am, but the dream has so little value now,
  like an illusion of something else.

Love, all but once, twice, has come through for me.
  Faith, propping me up, like a scarecrow, with no bones,
Lost and Sorry, and dying on a cross, these eyes will never see.

  more and more, excommunicating myself of the World of Man.

The Single Star in the Sky

Light me, eternally born to death,
  And wear,

As any sequence
 Of human abode.

  Head knelt-
    a grace of submission.
Visions and squares, frame his face
  O'er and o'er, but ethereal clouds
Perhaps only as thoughts
  Are all there is,

To say it was.

Had we left it squandered? Or was life fully lived?
Done the best with what we'd been given...
Had we done our best?

There is a single star outlined,
  one that always points to you.

I imagine that is the pathway home, in the beyond
  believing irrevocably, that even upon death,
I will go back one day.

That we will look into the other again,

that I will be welcomed home and embraced.

That I will have never forgotten you-
My Heart, left in another life;

Left in a realm, where you keep it safe,
Yet broken I am without it.

Heart centered, with no ground.

Lost here,
beneath this one star,
so far,
pointing the way home-

back to everything I knew,
before this.