She had no heroes,

no room in her life

for such romantic thought

or strength of feminine culture.

No heroes, not any more.

She swore off them, respect

whittled away

chip by whittled chip

and now the only hero

in her life

is the one who lives

in an imagined world

where She sleeps, catatonic

and death like; the hero arrives

faceless but frees her from her cell, her prison, her solitary

confinement.

There is no room for heroes,

for She will not relinquish the key.