Where do all the super heroes go?
Big bulging biceps,
pecs ready to
rip right through
in t-shirts
or super suits.

Moral quandaries,
social philosophies,
counter to expectation
these are not merely
masked muscle men
and women
we are facing,
but symbols.

Righteous warriors
going round for round
putting clowns into the ground,
or refusing to yield to
the urge to **** the few
big bad dudes
who wear ridiculous costumes to.

Guns and knives
squads of suicide
life on the edge of tomorrow,
but those forces are fragile
frightening forms as agile
as circus acrobats,
almost immortal
because they
always seem to come back.

These are merely
specters of mythic glory,
manifestations of our magnificent
imaginations,
panels of artistic exaggerations.
Truly, the inspiration
of my own self-creation
because in a world
without superheroes
I long to be one.