WHAT makes the exceptional as yet always not?

I return to my hovel little cave, I turn off the light of day, and yet I sleep, sleep is better yet than life? For up rises a hero, and beyond the horizon, they wreak hope and happiness, And down they fall, lower than the villain they've slain, And I despair, and look across the Atlantic, across the Indian and the Antarctic, No hero ever seems the exception, nothing but illusion, but mirage.

So I get back to my job, and to time with friends from my University past. I focus on words, and attacks and defences, on work, work, and work, I resolve conflicts for my job. It is about solutions, not right and wrong, And proudly I do my job, for law is what upholds life and living breath.

And yet, over the horizon, just out of sight, I pray to see a hero, A real one, for once, an actual good person, not the amoral mass of our world.

I get back to work, for work is my life, and hope I subdue, ideology and belief in humanity's exceptionalism are distant now. Checks and balances I uphold, in this imperfect system circling a second class little sun. My heroism is amoral. I do not save any lives. I merely assist, and come to another's side, And in the battle of legal words I empirically fight.

I am not a hero, but an amoral upholder of rights, and fighter for might be and might not be. I am no hero, though I wish I could see one, perhaps a single good person at a distance, rising up from day and light! For the politicians, and the celebrated ones... they are never whom they seem. And quietly I serve my goddess, the law, and softly, I speak on behalf of others...