A con review poem and pictures of the New York Comic-Con included.
The hoard of faces smiled, sneered and looked
away with purple eyes and lips dried by passion
They descended bearing gifts, donned in leather and lace
holstered guns gleaming soft lights dangled by their sides
ancient swords slung across backs weary with waiting
but they found the desired cut.
Orcs and Batman fought over the essence
called autographs as
Wolverine, The cast of Bleach, and Lex Luthor
texted to allies where Bruce Campbell and Stan Lee
were spotted roaming though the last bastion called
the V.I.P. lounge
Loki danced with Thor's friends
as the revelry of Asgard fell among mortals
the rainbow bridge Bifrost was
laid flat upon a stretch of New York City
Certainly Spider-Man crawled the walls
waiting in line for the bathroom but
few villains, even Dr. Evil, tried to sabotage
the celebration of individuation.
Hayao Miyazaki would have been proud
that Princess Mononoke protected
this forest of dreams as the play
and themes slipped out from the seams.
It was creation.
It was celebration.
It was pageantry.
It was mystery.
It was joy.
There were giveaways.
There were more.
And we, one and all, all and one
put on faces for the faces that we would meet
and through Artist Alley's transient streets
we gorged upon the delight of others who willingly
sacrificed time for our viewing pleasure.
With all good things, an ending is sure to come
but memories with such insolence will
not fade when burned so brightly
from the flash and awe of those
who risk to become gods
even if for only a day.