He can't leap a skyscraper or carry a car.
He's not as strong as a freight train
or as fast as lightning.
But he would leap in front of you or stand by your side
to take piercing bullets and quench flaming arrows,
shielding you from danger until it's safe again.
His cape doesn't flow back and forth in the wind.
He wears no costume or colorful symbol.
You'll recognize his friendly smile
and soft hand on your shoulder.
He can lift crushing weights from your back,
help you bear burdens,
pull you out of collapsed,
He doesn't glide by clouds or soar past planets,
but he always seems to be around—
in the hallway, on a busy street,
wherever you might need him
to answer your call of distress.
He'll rescue you
from those who beat you up and shoot you down,
from suffocating deathtraps closing in on all sides
until he breaks in and carries you away.
He'll fight with them forever or however long it takes,
as long as he can maintain his mask—
because maybe if he keeps trying to rescue people
no one will notice he can't actually save anyone,
and maybe if he keeps fighting he'll forget
he can't even save himself
from clawing monsters and blackened skeletons
haunting him from the past,
and maybe if he tries hard enough
the world can still be saved,
so he'll put his mask back on and face the world again
because his battle will never be won
and a hero's work is never done.