Comes the swift hero, back from his task,
swift comes he now from the battle's blasts.
Clark steals through the late night air,
a creature of steel being spat,
like an arrow shot,
a bullet, liquid metal hot,
from the crucible's fiery heart.
That heart, so terrible,
yet so beautiful,
was like unto his own,
and, for having seen,
he is a boy no more.
The clay of a man's purpose
bakes in the beehive oven
of his soul, his man's soul
which has this night seen,
etched on its inner eye,
twin horrors to remind it
of the two houses that birthed it
and from which it has just been weaned.
One devil is a man who is rich,
the other a false god with an itch to kill
that Kal-El had thought scratched out;
and he has seen a Hope that may yet
mold him a future to contrast
with his o, so lonely past.
For every man there is a woman,
carved of his flesh on the morning
of the world's birth from the rich clay
of the Garden the Lord walked in.
The die of their meeting then is cast!
Flying very fast, he reaches the mouth
of the tunnel he once dug from a "duster"
(a dry well not plugged by the diggers,
who, disgusted by their failure,
leave them stand, uncapped),
a duster many miles distant,
to the vault of the bank
where he's the manager's assistant.
Very private spots, both.
He hopes no one finds it.
The roaches who take
human form to burgle could make
use of it to enter and escape.
No one in the bank would even know
it had been robbed, nor when, nor by whom.
He likes his job -- doesn't want to lose it
-- so he hopes no one finds it,
or him while he uses it.
In the vault -- cold steel,
like an abandoned crucible --
he changes, boxes the uniform
in safe deposit and locks it.
He hopes no one finds it.
He is quite late.
It was an important date
and he is late.
Should have told her sooner,
for now her just anger
will clog her ears.
If he even tells her.
Yes, dear reader,
he is that much changed
by things seen and learned
in the late oil field fire,
changed enough to do the tough thing,
abandon romance if needed for the chance
to be forged anew elsewhere.
Change rears its ungainly head
as it pleases, not when one is ready.
If he must break the old mold,
best it's broken and the change told
at a party, if the party's still going.
He looks through the vault door,
scans left, scans right.
The pavilion's empty,
but, in the office
of his boss is...
The crowd, and the cot
that they've put Ma on.
He would knock that vault door down
and scatter that crowd from the room.
He does not. He turns slowly around,
jumps back in the tunnel
in civilian clothes,
and whispers (not too loud;
he doesn't want them to hear him,
doesn't want them to fear him),
whispers, "No. No. No. No."
His whisper echoes through the duster
as he re-traverses it, but is drowned
down in his own ears by the rush
of his flying and the fierce pounding
of his heart pumping.
Steel heart, Man of Steel's heart,
pumping like the pipes that rub
the earth, that puncture and scrub
at the life's blood of her
until she bursts. His heart would burst.
It does not. He is a man
and in control. He turns, sharp right
and through the nitro-man's shoot
of an active well, cleaning its walls
as he goes a new secret route
to the bank. There's always a way,
a way for a man, a way out. Always.
Then he's out, and up, and away.
"There's always a way," he thinks,
"Always a way (Up, up, and away).
Always, always, always.
Mother, please; mother, please.
Always a... Up and... Always...
Please, please, please, please, please,"
he pleads, "Always a way. A way. Please."