Folk Hero

A figure stands tall, always alone
A folk hero, his gaze is fixed
Always ahead, always ahead
What makes him a man?
His mouth, a fount of words that sooth
His lips, discerning
His hands will crush or bind or gently touch
His mind is full of art and war
And in his chest beats time
What makes him a man?
He is killed, and killed, but cannot die
Determination's in his brow
His eyes will freeze or melt in place
He leaps above us all
He judges and forgives
What makes him a man?
He never forgets, but seems not to know
He always knows, but seems not to care
His critics are many, but never acknowledged
He'll bring a tinge of joy in sorrow
His mind is at work, always at rest
What makes him a man?
He sees inside of you, his soul is hidden
He picks us apart, and still
He is a man unto himself, a broken perfection