My Superpower

In the small hours,

I sit with my back straight,

Eyes burrowed into the heart of darkness,

Where a single cockroach,

Saner than us all,

Writes the history of the world.

My superpower lies in my palms,

Each line a roadmap of silent stories,

The missing milk teeth of unborn laughter,

And the constellations of scars,

Where skin remembers each fall.

I hear the dreams of stones,

Their slumber deeper than oceans,

While I count the ticking of a clock,

Louder than thunder in an empty room,

Each second a heartbeat in this universe of bone.

A fly makes his pilgrimage across my desk,

Legs a whisper on the papers,

An oracle chasing forgotten breadcrumbs,

To prophesy in the temple of the mundane,

I am the witness and the scribe.

My words—a loom of smoke and mirrors,

Weaving the invisible into sight,

A dance of shadows in the lamplight,

Where everything is nothing,

But nothing blooms with life's insistence.

The superpower, then,

Not in muscles, capes, nor flight,

But in the quiet observance,

Of this tragic, beautiful plight,

Where I am both moth and flame,

In the theater of the night.