he goes on and on
a lonely man
with a brilliant mind,
sure,
with a trick or two
up his sleeve.
angry and bold
or maybe a prodigal son
he hides his pain but it's written
all over the way he walks.
he's got a big gun as his weapon
or maybe a really sharp
tongue
and everyone's wondering
what the madman will do
but i can see him
crouching in a corner of the room
he lies there
still
like any move will hurt
him
and i know that to be
true.
there's always a frown on his face
(or maybe a smile)
some think death got her grip on him
but i know pain, too,
is a form of life.
and when i watch over his path
with adoration or sadness
(surely, both)
i wonder if he knows --
the hero i love is unhappy
he can never win.