## I. THE DRAWING DESK **Verse 1** The deadline bears down, hard and fast, The city crowds the rain-streaked glass. A thousand lines, a thousand lies, A hero with unseeing eyes. I give him courage, give him flight, A silver crest to pierce the night. But every ending I devise Falls dead beneath his painted eyes. **Verse 2** The final panel will not close. I draw his face. The likeness goes. I draw the mask. I draw the man. I cross it out. Begin again. The lamp burns low, the shadows climb. My hand moves on beyond the line. **Chorus** Who writes the story? Who wears the name? Who walks the night and returns unchanged? The hand that draws, the mask that hides— One face on either side. Turn the page; the night is through. There’s a brand-new tale to follow through. The paper tells me what he’s done. I’ll draw the tale before day is done. ## II. AFTER THE CITY SLEEPS **Verse 3** The moon hangs white above the street, Where broken shadows cross and meet. A shadow slips through alleyways, Where lamplight fails and darkness stays. A cry. A crash. A siren’s thread. A shadow leaps from roof to ledge. He scans the windows, street by street, For something moving underneath. He stops to listen, still and low, To every sound the streets bestow. A window breaks. A stranger cries. He moves before the sirens rise. No name is spoken. No face is known. He leaves no mark to call his own. Above the streets, beyond the light, He searches on throughout the night. ## III. THE MORNING EDITION **Verse 4** The morning paper tells the tale Of shattered glass and sirens’ wail. He stopped the blow. He turned the tide, Then disappeared before daylight. A loose thread dangles from my cuff. I tuck it in; the seam’s grown rough. My knuckles ache. I flex my hand. Too long at work, I understand. **Verse 5** A scrap of news lies by the pen. Some name I clipped . . . and when . . . and when? The story’s old; the reason’s gone. I toss it out and carry on. ## IV. THE INK WON’T DRY **Verse 6** I give him nerve. I give him flight. I send him where the wrongs ignite. He stands his ground. He takes the blame. He walks away without a name. He finds the words I cannot find. He leaves no frightened soul behind. I draw him brave. I draw him free. The man I make is more than me. **Final Chorus** Who writes the story? Who wears the name? Who walks the night and returns unchanged? The hand that draws, the mask that hides— One face on either side. One hand to draw. One hand to fight. One wakes at dawn. One walks the night. The ink runs deep. The lines align. The face I draw looks back at mine. ## V. THE NEXT ISSUE **Outro** The morning comes. The room is still. Rain streaks the glass beyond the sill. A fresh white page. I dip the pen. I’ll tell his story once again. The paper rests beside the light. I sketch the crest against the night. A line of ink. A face takes shape. Another ending to escape. The final panel will not close. I draw his face. The likeness goes.
