Brand New Ancients

In the old days, the myths were the stories
We used to explain ourselves. Well how can
We explain the way we hate ourselves, the
Things we've made ourselves into, the way
We break ourselves, into the way we over-complicate 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's made us so monstrous, but it feels
Like we've forgotten that we are much
More than the sum of the things that
Belong to us

The empty skies rise over
The benches where the old men sit
And they are desolate and friendless and
Young men spit, and inside they are
Delicate, but outside they are reckless
And I reckon these are our heroes. These
Are our legends. The face on the street
You walk past without looking at it, the
Face on the street that walks past you
Without looking back, the man in the
Supermarket trying to keep his kids out
Of his trolley, the woman by the park
Bench struggling with her body

Every single person has a purpose in them
Burning. Look again. Allow yourself to see
Them. Millions of characters each with
Their own epic narrative. Singing 'it'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 these cities have always said
The same thing. About how all we really
Need; is a place to belong. And how
All we really want; 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

And alright; there's no monsters to kill
There's no dragon's teeth left for the sowing
But what there is, are these muttering
Nutters. What there is, is the

[?]
Is what we have. What we have here
Is a [?] I'm freaked out by the
Importance of what I feel I'm saying
Suddenly I can visualize that this is not the
Poem. I could just visualize all, these people listening
(Thank you)

Because what we have here, is a brand new mythic palette
You know, the parable of the mate you had
He could have been anything. But he
Turned out an addict. Or the parable of
The probable father returned after years
In the wilderness
Our morality has learned to our experiences. Gained in
These cities in all of their rage and their tedium
And yes, our colors are muted and grey
But our battles are staged all the same
We are still mythical
Call us by our names
We are perfect because of our imperfections
We must stay patient, we must stay hopeful
We must stay patient
Because when they excavate the modern day, they'll find us:
The brand new ancients

Man all that we have here, is all that we've always had
We have jealousy, tenderness, curses and gifts
But the plight of the people who
Have forgotten their myths and imagine
That somehow now is all that there is
Is a sorry plight; all isolation and
Worry. The life in your veins it is godly. Heroic
You were born for greatness
You can believe that, you can know it, you
Can take it from the tears of your poets

There has always been heroes. There has
Always been villains. Yes, the stakes may
Have changed, but really there's no difference
There's always been heartbreak, greed and ambition
Bravery, love, trespass and contrition
We are the same beings that began
Still living. In all of our fury and foulness and friction
These are everyday odysseys
We have dreams, we make decisions

The stories are there if you listen
The stories are here
The stories are you and your fear
And your hope, is as old as the language of smoke
The language of blood
The language of languishing love
The gods are all here because the gods are in us. (ah)
The gods are in the betting shops
The gods are in the caf
The gods are smoking fags out the back
The gods are in the office blocks
The gods are at their desks
The gods are sick of always giving more and getting less
The gods are at the rave now. They're two pills deep into dancing
The gods are in the alleyways laughing
The gods are at the doctors
They just need a little something for the stress
The gods are in the toilets having unprotected sex
The gods are in the supermarket
The gods are walking home
The gods can't stop checking Facebook their phones
The gods are in a traffic jam
The gods are on a train
The gods are watching adverts
The gods are not to blame
The gods are working for the council
The gods are on the dole
The gods are getting drunk, pissing their wages down a hole
The gods are in their gardens and they're staring at the plants
The gods are in the classrooms
Those poor things don't stand a chance
The gods are trying to tell the truth
But the truth is hard to say
The gods are born they live a while and then, they pass away

They're in a crowded street
It's too much, they feel sick
Yeah sure, there must be more to life but they don't know what it is. These gods have got no Oracles to translate their requests
These gods have got a headache
A payment plan and stress about when next they'll see their kids
They are not fighting over favorites
They are just getting on with it

They are; the brand new ancients