The Comfort

Millions stopped
in their tracks the moment
they heard you'd died.
You hadn't been any saint
or anything like that,
and although you'd been
a great Superman on screen,
one knew in reality that you
were as mortal as are we all.
That what you'd later come
to represent was human
suffering on the highest level.
You hurt so long and so
intensely that a serious
reflection on it for a short
while even would bring
immediate tears to the eyes
of the toughest of the "tough."
Especially those who'd read
all the way through your book.
"Still Me," you titled it.
Of course, it wasn't true . Yes,
you were still you, but in so
many ways, too many to count,
you weren't.
You never would be again.
Your family would never be
the same either. Still,
many who knew you loved you.
And millions who didn't know
you knew your face, knew
your famous poses with and
without the cape. And if these
didn't love you, they certainly
admired you. Rather a lot, I'd
say. That must have been some
comfort. Not enough, of course.
You needed more than that, not
to mention the cure that never
arrived. For that, the millions
were truly sorry for you. Those
millions who stopped in their
tracks the moment they heard
you'd died. You won't be forgotten
so soon. In fact, it should be
quite a long time. Maybe that'll
be a comfort. A tiny one, perhaps?