There is hunger for pretence—
figures beyond human,
hurtling through soft blue-grey light.
We cheer for their battles,
their victory for us all
against darkness woven like fog.

It is a crutch for choosing—
right or wrong,
their faces become masks for uncertainty.
In their image, we stagger toward
edges sharp as broken glass.

Not all shine is gold,
not all gold is pure.
They rise, the hollow ones,
their voices weighted, but empty.
Hear them speak—
the cadence of cloying lies.
Their shadows will fall,
but leave no imprint.
No heat to warm the frozen ground.

Authentic Heroes are found elsewhere:
in quiet rooms, where sterile hands
touch life trembling.
In the streets where voices rise,
break like the surf
on walls too smooth to hold them.
A nurse, nameless—
soothing sweat-streaked brows.
A marcher, faceless—
breaking the silence of centuries.

Human,   flawed ones walk.
Their steps are uneven.
But they march—
Spartans in no armour,
heart tarnished but true.
The fallen stand again.
Their greatness cracks but does not shatter.

This, too, is comfort: to see them rise
with the weight of imperfection—
gold mixed with clay,
dust glowing in the sun.
We hunger for myths.
We dream of glory.
But heroes walk among us,
as human as breath is fleeting.