In the dream-time he flies,
but never when the world's awake.
At night there are no lies
and he never has to fake
Rest may be best for humans,
but the Kryptonian --
whose skin soaks up sunlight that sparks,
in turn, an internal engine
that burns brightest when it's dark out
-- must take flight then, or pout
over energy wasted. Clark
doesn't need to eat either.
He lost his taste for food
the first time his body fueled
itself, the night he woke startled
and broke his last sweat. The dream,
of the worst kind, recurred. Seems
it might again, so his bed
keeps all the visions his head
has traced and he, each evening,
races to meet the moon.
(Curiosity as to the dream
and its content, reader dear,
must wait to be sated, for here
we shall hear DIANA'S TUNE,
as it sounds to young Kent's ear.)
A goddess calls you, warrior!
Peel off the bedclothes in answer!
Wade in the milky glow that floods
your room, the bland demonic blood
that oozes from her chewed eye
to stain the deep purple sky
and rustle the anguished curtain
which, translucent with the wetness
of the light, flutters sluggishly,
as her hair might to the huntress'
shoulders fall if warriors fought
in slow motion. Heed her call,
boy. Swim to her, to Artemis,
swim to her through her glory,
dive out the second story
and into the lunar mists!
He plummets, first, then picks up speed
clamoring after the soothing mead
of audience with his lady-liege;
but, he is too humble to kiss
her silvery lips. His arc sags at this
and he fears he'll tumble earthward,
but quickly waves off despair
as to the Far West he repairs
himself, to that fertile region
which yet repels the ogre Drought.
Here he hears less false religion, for
nimbuses billow damp and blot out
the goddess' lunatic vamp.
The seductive glint of her eye
gives way to a gray tinted sky
through which Kent can plunge,
reckless and carefree.
Through Zeus' sweatshop he lunges,
silently battering down
gateways made of matter
not meant to be resilient,
so to inspect the violent
electric clashes that therein sew,
in their proper season, caps of snow
for the peaks below to wear.
Tonight they sow seeds more fair,
that sprout a drenching rain.
With unclenched fists he eagerly greets it!
Open-mouthed and jubilant he meets it!
Be gone, insomniacal pain!
Be quenched, all doubt -- Power is good!
Against one's fate one can revolt!
How they tickle him, the thunderbolts!
There is born, in Clark's ecstasy,
a plan by which he'd remedy
the regret that's lately plagued him.
CRACK! and BOOM! --
the sound barrier breaks, as back he zooms
from the Rockies, all the while reveling,
cherishing the thought of leveling
that damned tree and every memory
it carries. From twenty miles away
he targets one knot and...0:00, :01, :02...a bower
soaked in blood shatters under his brawn,
tarnished shade melts and there's a shower
of embers on the prairie this dawn.
He still remembers. It is done,
yet the dead rise not. Fervor blinds,
so he is surprised. As it winds down
he perches on the smoldering roots
and plays at jacks with falling splinters.
He is just another sinner.
In the night-world we try
to rise and meet our maker,
but the dark is full of lies
and fliers are fakers,
so we fly in our dreams
and cry when we're awake,
when the Truth screams:
God gives for His own sake,
He writes no motive on the sky.
Man lives but his due to take
and his is not to reason why.