It isn’t really his grave.
It’s what we choose to remember
Of him, his heart, his help.
It was a monument and memorabilia
All mingled and mangled with memory.
He was a madman and a good man.
He was childish and respectful.
He valued his mother above all else,
A thing we stupidly mocked.
He showed us how to be a hero
By being a hero of nothing at all.
His glory was in the everyday.
His most magnificent battles, in the mundane.
He brought us awe and into his own world.
It was his, all of it.
And it would never disappear, even in death.
That’s why we come to this comic shop.
To see not the remains of his death,
But the remnants of his life.