Hard back to cold brick, the Dark Knight stands
stark black against the red Gotham sky.
Tensed, lips tugged down, this man slips into a frown
like most people slip into bed. Heavy lidded and brooding, he tries
to justify his own self-righteous anger but knows, to drown
one must let go.
He never meant to have children;
but one orphan, loveless, cannot turn his back on another.
The Dark Knight is a drowning father of three. When
his first came grew withdrew transformed into Nightwing,
And his second came grew died, he was left to smother,
smolder; choke on his watery, sleep-deprived 'hard love.'
Now, three Robins and one Batgirl later, he wraps black night
around old shoulders,
pushes away chill, glances above
where the moon cries: Ain't it tough raising other people's kids? You fight
and you lose. Where the building's tall silhouettes whisper:
You choose and you're chosen.
The Dark Knight knows that somehow
with his kids he's defeated,
he'd leapt and was frozen.