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.
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