The Shorn Lion

 The sacred locks severed

and with them, the thunder of heaven’s covenant fled.
Power, once a roaring mantle upon his shoulders,
dissipates like incense in a profane wind.
Empty, he stumbles forward,
a hollow colossus stripped of divine fire,
mere mortal clay now,
wandering the scorched corridors of purposeless days.

Once a man of destiny, forged in the womb for glory,
he grinds at the Philistine mill like a beast of burden,
blind eyes staring into eternal night,
while revelry drags him deeper into stupor
a drunken dance with shadows.

Years roll by like indifferent stones,
crushing the altars of remembrance.
He ignores the signposts blazing along the path of return,
scorns the still small voice that once thundered in his bones.
Conscience, once a vigilant flame
he smothers beneath layers of willful night.
Soul-searching reflection lies severed,
a broken sword rusting in the dust.

There, upon Delilah’s treacherous lap,
like a witless fool surrendering the keys of empire,
he bartered his anointing for the fleeting nectar of lust.
Strength poured out as water upon desert sand.
Youthful days raced away on swift, merciless wings
those tender whispers of promise now distant echoes of yore.


The heart hardens into flint,
the conscience sears shut like a branded wound,
the will withers, brittle as autumn leaves.

Vices take root deeper than ancient cedars,
their thorns twisting into the marrow of the soul.
Habits form iron chains forged in secret furnaces
invisible fetters that bind tighter than any Philistine bronze.

Imprisoned without walls,
he walks the earth a free man in name alone,
yet enslaved to appetites that devour from within.
They go on.
On they go still
the hollow procession of days,
a vain, endless caravan searching for peace
in the ruins of a fallen Nazarite vow.