A poem by Kate Tempest

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 old men sit - 
they are desolate and friendless
and the young men spit;
inside they are delicate, but outside they're reckless and
      I reckon 
that these are our heroes,
these are our legends.

From Brand New Ancients. Bloomsbury, 2013.