His son's red cape is neatly folded
By his empty, made up bed.
The only sounds left are muffled voices
And the comicbook hero clock ticking overhead.
His figurine collection is dusty
His stories are stacked neatly by the door.
He always thought life was something less...
And I always argued it was something more.
I wish he could've seen his son again
A million times more, to be quite honest.
But it seems the hard truths of life
Were seeking and then caught us.
I'll bear grief when I think of what is lost
But to my knees I refuse to fall -
Because he taught us that a superhero's creed
(No matter what) Is to always stand tall.


In loving memory of the soul behind Stavros.

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Naturalis, in the year 566 AD.