I looked for the hero in the story
it appeared, there might be none.
All the rhetoric of history in its glory
slipped to dark shadows, tumultuously spun.
I read the introduction ushering steps that entwined
of a mystery still hidden somewhere in the misidentified.
On the pages, lines drew me in the narrative benign
until the marked crescendo of the expose' was denied.
The hero had no purpose in this writer's mind
villains, vampires, gluttonous politicians, shepherds all died.
The tombs remain unmarked, with history's ill recorded find
provoking little courage as each embrace the lie.
They held their breath, still the mind and beating heart,
cleanse every question and every thought conjured,
then quietly accept without the courage to start,
fact and truth, deception, outsmarted and squandered.
In the shadows where light fades around the corners
slow and precise, the hero steps slow, then unseen walks away
though the story reached its climax in tears and wails of mourners
heroes, completed tasks, allows the braggart to have his final say.
Copyright © DM Babbit | Year Posted 2020
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