lord pennyworth’s tears


You have…Dante?

The last word of his sentence

was spoken to me like a 

sputtered whisper. 

I…didn’t exactly know what to say.

It truly felt awkward. 

(especially since 

never have I ever 

read any Dante)

(And especially since

hearing him ask it

was me hearing it

for the first time myself)

(What’s confusing for some

could be just heavy for others.)

He peered into me,

as if to know me deeper

After all this time? He asked. 

His voice was… shaking. 

You carry Dante? 

He’s with you? 

I turned, inwardly somehow,

to the other one, on my left,

who still just sat there, 

saying nothing. 

I couldn’t help but pause for myself,

noticing how he went about his own witnessing of

the weight.

Quite astonishing to see one great poet watching the plight of another,

both of them alive, even after their own deaths.

(and he watched all this while eating something, I think. He was truly enjoying the moment.)

The one on the right continued.

He’s here?! With you?

I noticed the one on my left

still saying nothing. Just…

smiling. I think I even heard a


I sighed, the whole thing

just so goddamn weighty. 

I still don’t understand it all. 

 Apparently so, I exhaled. 

The one on my right

was speechless

at my “apparently”

and, even in his old age,

especially in his old age,

his wonderment 

at the proximity 

of his own hero

(news to me)

and personal savior

made the man become


and alive

and godlike

and all at once 

became something more like a child

and a fire lit somewhere in his eyes

and he cried out

“With YOU!……”

and he clutched my chest

and the one sent to me as 

a teacher and a father,

buried his face into my breast,

his tired, wrinkled, bearded, greying face

and wept tears of bliss.

Yes, bliss.

They dripped. 

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