| Superman's Costume's Been Torn; The Last Moments of a Hero |
| A tattered piece of rumpled cloth, blood stains all around from many a lost battle. Permanent scars embedded within the red, blue, and definite loss of encouragement. Superpowers mean nothing anymore, there are too many bullies to deal with. Spoiled brats on the playground of life: constant fighting and constant gunplay. It would take a thousand flights around the world to turn back enough time to repair all that is wrong. Dizzy from hours of holding breath, no time to replenish oxygen: "fix our bruises, mend our hearts, and bind us back together" is far too much to ask, even for a hero. The strongest threads could not hold together what it would take to keep that costume whole. Go back to the creation of our consumed subject, when there was a time that man of our imaginations was believed enough to restrain the bad and keep the peace. But times change, as fast as the clock can tick away at the easy life and turn people into nothing more than enraged chickens with heads cut off. Running around, flapping our wings tossing feathers and spilling blood is all we've come to exist for these days. X-ray vision, only good to see through the chests of man and to spy on the blackened hearts of humanity. In a time where seconds mean hours and hours mean eternities, we often get caught up in the frenzy of self-indulgence and technology. a hyper-use of chemicals to make our life "convenient" is killing us with cancer: seventy five percent. Turning green from radiation, human kryptonite. The stench of chaos and conflict linger in the air around the irreparable mass of spandex poly-blend. Sweat-stained torment, done mainly in vain. The sun is permanently clouded, pollution's too thick to recharge the battery of our sad superman. The once-hot glow in his eyes is reduced to nothing more than a whimper of someone used up too much, like many other natural resources. Superhuman speeds slowed to the pace not much faster than that of a snail; reduced to a crawl and scrambling for a secure grip on self-existence. Each threadbare inch is proof of a hyper-extended hero bent, pulled, twisted and punched right through to the breaking point. The poor sap snapped like a twig. I hope we are proud of ourselves, we managed to maim something so sweet. Once again, without even trying. |