Thursday, November 17, 2011

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.

2 comments:

  1. I love your use of beautiful imagery. The mythological references also alludes to powerful messages.

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  2. Hi, I have nominated you for the Liebster Blog Award because I love reading your writing.

    ReplyDelete

Write me a song.