“Combat boots, alpha males, police, SWAT, power incarnate - me: frail, seeking to re-grip reality.”

In midnight’s grip, the world parades  
A thunder-march of leather shades—  
Combat boots, authority’s tread  
Echo unyielding in my head.  
Blue lights flicker—city veins,  
Steel in their voices, nothing feigns;  
Alpha males, squared jaw and shoulders,  
Carrying purpose—city’s boulders.

SWAT teams shimmer in obsidian rows,  
Faces masked where nobody knows  
The world behind their visor’s stare,  
Fragile hearts in fiction’s lair.  
Power incarnate—riot shields bright,  
Their presence shatters shadow to light.  
They move as one, a storm suppressed  
I watch, unarmored, unimpressed  
By what I lack—muscle or bone—  
Tethered spirit, all alone.

Yet somewhere, folded in my hands,  
A filament of truth still stands:  
I seek to grip, again hold tight,  
A softer power, out of sight—  
Reality, not shaped by boots,  
But by the heart that still computes  
What strength may be: a whispered plea,  
Or just the will to simply be.  

Let armies march; let order rule,  
I am but one—unfit, uncool—  
But even the frail, with trembling minds,  
May find the steady world that binds.  
In silence, power sees me through—  
Not boots nor shields, but simply *true*.

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