Samson

How can I look back with any joy?
It must be placed onto the canvas
of where I am…grinding, straining
Glory gone
blown swiftly away
brushed off the trail, some old woman with a broom
mindlessly doing her job
Faith seemed to arrive slowly
and very unnoticed
like water seeping into a stone, smoothing
I didn’t notice
Thousands of pounds of grain came from me
into the mouths of the ungrateful…but I was carved
Then I was suddenly awake
when they placed
one hand on one pillar
one hand on another