Tromper.

This is where restless hands dig doubt.
Scratchy gray threads of cheap upholstery, explored.
We search for solace from ourselves.

Orange lamplights dance in half-built streets, illuminating metal arms of sleeping cranes.
Morning dew hangs in the air. We do, too,
suspended, silent, still.
Our tongues are wrapped in cobwebs, important words left untouched.

We fight it off, until Atlas bends, weak and worn,
and Babylon crumbles.
Guilt recedes to the back of the mind,
a silent whimper pounding, pounding,
gone.


So here it is, here's Samson's call,
A bloody blow before a fall.