A serious face glares through the snow,
peering to the depths. The city hums
with the pierce of sirens, the murmur of shouts.
His pulse slows, His body thrumming. He is another part
of a jutting skyline. A heartless moon bathes the scene.
A lost battle. A massacre.
A broken ragdoll below warm the pavement,
beauty set in stone. The flakes track the dark leather,
pooling on the granite, being watched
Yet oblivious, the eyes glow through the screen.
Too much shadow for a plain bedroom, too much normality
For the sordid abyss of Gotham.
Has such insignificance always bred heroism?
Hours on laptops create such brooding scenes
of emotions that you cannot understand.
But who can understand the solitary idol?