SAMSON

SAMSON

Bald Samson walks a barren road,
Regretting all the hair he sold,
To the wicked Delilah, her beauty so stunning.
She got what she wanted with her wiles and her cunning. 

The wishing well is all but dry,
Barren in its desert home.

He walks these plains a haunted man,
Whose precious dreams have up and flown.

Cornered by the memories
Of water trickling through the pass,

Samson's throat is cracked and choking
On dreams he prayed would last.

He cannot count on sunny weather,
He cannot hope for placid seas,
In the cruel eye of the hurricane,
Felled by the savage breeze.

The millionaire is penniless,
Rummaging through the dumpster bare
For scraps from which to build a meal,
His hunger permeates the air.

Where once he held her to his breast 
As gentle as a desert flower,
Delilah sharp has drawn his blood,
And crimson dreams turn sour.

The canteen spills, the water leaks,
The spirit's moored and tethered.
The sailor's lost and rudderless,
The prisoner's tarred and feathered.

Grief stricken Samson is out of his mind,
When he learns his baldness in the male pattern kind.
He learns that his life is bounded by hours.
He cannot count on lighthouses,
The guards sleep in their towers,
He'd best not hunger for a cure,
The doctors have no powers.

The wishing well is all forlorn,
Samson's head is bald and shorn,
Delilah laughs in the distance, clutching her clippers with glee,
While Samson waits for the noose impatiently.

He swings aloft, he swings alone,
His strength is sinking like a stone,
He walks these plains a haunted soul,
Whose finest days have all but flown.

-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED