They Are Nowhere. You Are Now

There are no hordes admiring,

no scroll of deeds or backs hunching

over typewriters, stitching tales

of triumph in your honor.

For you the spiders tick in empty

halls of dusty web. Echoes of unnoticed

time passing. But you, Oh Common Man,

hero of the dead, are celebrated by shadows

and bats and moonlight falling silent.

Ancient giants bowing disembodied thoughts

to the dirt in which your feet still echo

in nonexistent memories.

Slayer of monsters at midnight.

Keeper of peace in infant imaginations.

Healer of superficial cuts, slaying dragons

before they enter the castle of a child's heart.

These are the wars all the statued generals

wish they'd fought. Yours is the silence

They will never have.