I wasn't born a hero. Nobody ever is. Is it because of the tragedies that we never see coming? Is it because our lives lie in ruin afterward, forgotten by the world? How do we go on, and why should we care? But hope is the haunting image of her, and crisis is the trigger, hurling us into harm's way. But a life needs to be saved, but who will save me? I need hope, and I need her. But my trust falls against the bitter edge of betrayal, and her delicate presence slips through my hands. I failed. A sliver of love are the tears falling from my eyes for I am to blame, and justice needs to hear my cry. But what kind of hero is painted in red? Is it one trying to make right from what went so very wrong, or will there be no forgiveness for what I must do? Will I fail again, or will redemption take me by hand, deny death its bounty, and grant me one last chance? And will love be the wind beneath my broken wings? I wasn't born a hero, but nobody ever is.