the heist

back from Jerusalem
I came home to find
my comic book kingdom stolen,
pillaged by my brother,
a thief without cause.

He never cared for Spidey’s swings,
or Cap’s shield slicing air,
just the flash of popularity,
the glow of borrowed admiration.

My sister, the manipulator,
spun her web of words,
“Better for everyone,” she said,
as if their hands could guard
what my heart had amassed.

I felt the sting, sharp,
the ache of betrayal,
but then, the voice of ancient reason,
a whisper in the chaos:
“What’s lost is just ink and paper.”

They can take the collection,
they can claim the marvels,
but they cannot steal
the joy of those first flips,
the wide-eyed wonder of a kid.

I see their envy, their empty grasp,
their hollow victories.
They can’t touch
the stories etched in my soul,
the battles won and lost
in pages they never cared to read.

Let them have their fleeting fame,
their counterfeit crowns.
I’ve learned the worth
of what truly matters.

In my heart, I hold the true riches,
the memories, the dreams,
the worlds that no thief can breach.

They robbed me, yes,
but only of what’s external,
leaving untouched
the treasure of my inner self.

I am invincible,
for what I hold
is beyond their reach.