In shadows deep, where justice sleeps,
A vigilante grimly creeps.
Frank Castle's name, a whispered dread,
For those who leave the innocent dead.
No hammer's might, no web's swift swing,
No gamma's rage, no mystic thing.
His weapon's steel, his gaze is cold,
A story etched in years of old.
A family lost, a life torn apart,
A burning rage within his heart.
The system failed, the wicked thrived,
A new kind of justice he contrived.
The skull emblazoned on his chest,
A symbol stark, putting souls to test.
Each bullet fired, a silent plea,
For vengeance, for what ought to be.
Through darkened alleys, rain-slicked streets,
He hunts the prey, his purpose meets.
The guilty tremble at his stride,
No place to run, nowhere to hide.
Some call him monster, filled with hate,
Ignoring the cruel hand of fate.
But victims' cries, a haunting sound,
On hallowed, unforgiving ground.
He walks a path, a lonely fight,
Against the darkness, day and night.
The Punisher, a name that chills,
Where broken justice slowly spills.
Though lines are blurred, and morals fray,
He seeks a brighter, cleaner day.
A brutal answer to despair,
The weight of vengeance he must bear.
