Disclaimer: Again, none are mine - the characters belong to Marvel and these particular aspects of them to Mercutio (hope you don't mind!), and I have no permission to use either. This is a companion poem to 'Waiting' - while 'Waiting' came some time before 'Shoot Me' by Mercutio, this is intended to follow on directly from where 'Shoot Me' ended.

A Friend, Sleeping
by Dyce

His face so seeming innocent,
So gently peaceful in repose,
An Impling Mischief, sleeping,
Reveals an angel's face beneath.
With laughter gone, 'tis possible,
To see the first faint lines of care,
That touch his eyes and mouth with age.
Lines of laughter, and of love,
Pain and loss and loneliness.
For his is indeed a lonesome lot,
How can a tender heart compete,
With handsomeness and brooding charm?
What price humour, challenged with
A winged angel's suff'ring guise?
Tenderness is poorly matched
'Gainst the charms of pain and power.
It saddens me, to see his hurt
The wintry chill that cools his heart,
For he loves so truly and so well,
And all doomed to waste.
Yet it does not, can not break him,
For his is strength beyond us all.
For 'tis easier to sit and weep,
Than to rise laughing from the fall.
Yet rise he does, and falls, only
To gamely laughing rise again.
I will not be crushed, he seems to cry,
I will not be broken! Take my diginity,
I prize it not, nor need its shield.
Take my pride, my power, if you can,
For I have none, and cannot miss them.
I bend, I do not break, you can not
Shatter me with words or deeds,
For I refuse angst, deny despair,
And laughing will I face you,
Though inside I weep bitter tears.
So brave and wise a heart,
All unremarked by those around,
Yet I know it and him for what they are-
And his friendship means far more to me,
Than any passing spandex love or hate.
He sleeps, trusting, innocent,
And my heart is touched and warmed thereby.
I watch, until sleep whispers to
My eyes to close, and head to nod.
Then, at last, I take him up,
Softly, that he may not wake.
He barely stirs, no murmur makes,
On my shoulder rests his head,
And I carry, once again, with care,
Bobby Drake upstairs to bed.


-(main) - (biography) - (discussion) - (stories) - (pictures) - (links) - (updates)-