Laid out on a slab a size too large,
looking a shade too camp in ripped blue tights,
the fallen hero fails to meet our gaze.
He once stood proud, the mighty arms
folded across his chest. Now stripped of might
his crossed arms limply hide the blazoned vest.
Batman's props were car and belt, bat this, bat that,
and Wonder Woman had her whip to fright
the truth from villains. Kal-el needed none.
The ice-fresh breath, the burning gaze, are gone.
The shrunken, wrinkled frame a bitter sight.
Our guardian no more punching through the air.
We trudge up stairs towards a poorer world.
The last one stops and sighs and hits the light,
switching the crypt to darkness. We go out
leaving truth, justice, the American way
lying abandoned in the crypt tonight.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
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