He once walked roads ablaze with ideal,
a faded banner in his hazy eyes,
Bob — wanderer of places lost,
whose teeth were grit and hope alike,
whose hands once shook the world apart
and stitched it back with rag‑tag dreams.
They told him peace was sanctuary,
but peace — it lay unkept like tombstones
in the desert’s breath, where ghosts
of revolution still whispered
in every dry wind’s stuttered cry.
Then Willa slipped like dawn’s first flame
through grips of night, a spark undone
by faces clad in anthem’s scarlet lies,
where power donned a crooked smile
and war forgot its own name.
He ran — heart a hammer against ribbed walls,
through miles where time bled slow and loud,
past echoes of what once was right,
where every clash was another chance
to hold tomorrow in trembling hands.
The nemesis in steel‑clad pride,
Lockjaw’s grin a fractured flag,
met him in the heat of dust and fear,
and stories snapped like splintered wood
beneath the weight of unbowed wills.
And when at last night’s black veil fell,
And morning bled its golden truth
across a world still raw with fight —
Bob and his daughter stood still,
breathing hope into the open sky.
A road remembered, step by step,
worn but unbeaten,
leading all who wander back
to places wounded yet alive,
where one battle after another
hollows out the courage of return.