In the old days

the myths were the stories we used to explain ourselves.

But how can we explain the way we hate ourselves,

the things we've made ourselves into,

the way we break ourselves in two,

the way we overcomplicate ourselves?

But we are still mythical.

We are still permanently trapped somewhere between the heroic and the pitiful.

We are still godly;

that's what makes us so monstrous.

But it feels like we've forgotten we're much more than the sum of all

the things that belong to us.

The empty skies rise

over the benches where the old men sit –

they are desolate

and friendless

and the young men spit;

inside they're delicate, but outside they're reckless and I reckon

that these are our heroes,

these are our legends.

That face on the street you walk past without looking at,

or that face on the street that walks past you without looking back

or the man in the supermarket trying to keep his kids out of his trolley,

or the woman by the postbox fighting with her brolly,

every single person has a purpose in them burning.

Look again, and allow yourself to seethem.

Millions of characters,

each with their own epic narratives

singingit's hard to be an angel

until you've been a demon.

The sky is so perfect it looks like a painting

but the air is so thick that we feel like we're fainting.

Still

the myths in this city have always said the same thing –

about how all we need is a place to belong;

how all we need is to know what's right from what's wrong and

how we all need to struggle to find out for ourselves

which side we are on.

We all need to love

and be loved

and keep going.

There may be no monsters to kill,

no dragons' teeth left for the sowing,

but what there is, is the flowing

of rain down the gutters,

what there is is the muttering nutters.

What we have here

is a brand new mythic palette:

the parable of the mate you had who could have been anything

but he turned out an addict.

Or the parable of the prodigal father

returned after years in the wilderness.

Our morality is still learned through experience

gained in these cities in all of their rage and their tedium and yes –

our coloursare muted and greyed

but our battles are staged all the same

and we are still mythical:

call us by our names.

We are perfect because of our imperfections.

We must stay hopeful;

We must stay patient –

because when they excavate the modern day

they'll find us: the Brand New Ancients.

See – all that we have here is all that we've always had.

We have jealousy

and tenderness and curses and gifts.

But the plight of a