And my heroes uses to sit on tall pedestals
Above normal men
But they reached too high into the sky
The statues of my mind
Reached the sun and ignited
Turned to ash
And fell at my feet.
Heros made men
Once more at my feet
Able to sin like men should
On the dirt from which we all come

Lennon said come together over me
And then he sank back into the dirt
He said to love
we said make his blood spurt

Tragic angels
are what we crave.
Like poor John
Plunged into an early grave.
There is a reason he started dressing like Jesus in 73

You are no more flawed than the Auroras.
No more evil than wind flowing over the hills.
There is nothing lacking in the winding of a lake's bank

You are the naturally occurring phenomena
of atoms becoming apes
**And you are beautiful.

Sing out for the repulsed.
The putrid. The obscene.
For all the children just find their way on and in the music scene.  
Sing out for every grandma that shutters as we walk by.
Sing out for every giggle let out at a government lie.
Sing in the artificial moonlight on streets that never see darkness or silence.

Sing in the drunk revelry of youth
and hormones and whispered sweet nothings
nether will remember.
And of looks deep into her. . .
eyes because they are truly the most beautiful thing you have seen this night.

Sing in voices too loud for the hour.  
Listen to the sound of youth plotting revolution and redistribution of power.
But are derailed when they learn the milk has gone sour
and someone must walk to buy more at two thirty on a Tuesday morning.

Sing of the truly mundane immortalized
in novels and short stories and twitter accounts weekly
as the clock switches from Friday to Saturday largely unnoticed.

Sing of me brothers and sisters.
Sing of me as I walk to my future
tired, weary, and feet covered in blisters.
For the walk is long, and time waits for no one.

Please don’t ask me where I've been,

I don’t want to lie to you again.

And again.