Where, where do my old heroes lie?
Bereft of shining armor, spewing now
A putrid light to ill-define
What was never before in any doubt.
These were the ones in whom a fool,
Or myself, as I was soon to find,
Would place their hopes, for lacking not
In pleasant fantasies: a child’s mind.
Not a hint of recognition,
Divorced from the idealism of youth,
I cannot spy those men who gave
To me, the sweet dreams of a better truth.
Still innocent eyes are to demons drawn,
Atop the pedestals we placed them on.