Mocking Samson

Alone in this little room
full of a restless spirit
so big it is often mistaken for many,
frightening off even the bravest of souls,
I am called a monster
though I have a tender heart.
My humongous hands are feared
when they can be so gentle,
and my voice makes people shudder
because of how loud it is in their little ears.

When I am uncaged, unchained, and free
one cannot ignore my divinity.
Some call me wild and natural
(as if that is a bad thing).
Others stare, mouths gaping,
in awe of my powerful and awesome beauty.
It inspires their reverence
and awakens their envy.

    My being makes them feel inadequate.
    My beauty makes them feel ugly.
    My freedom makes them feel imprisoned
    in their own little minds.

    Their nature pronounces itself unnatural,
    by plotting against our mother,
    blaming me for their self-hatred
    because they see me as her favorite sun.

    They have practiced their madness for so long
    that they have collectively become Satan,
    always at odds with God,
    and professing to love the very son they crucify
    over and over again.

They covet my very existence
Out of their minds and unable to decide
whether they want to kill me, be me, or control me;
but they cannot love me,
so the only way they can know me
is to hunt me down, tranquilize me, chain me,
and put me in a cage
(for their safety),
so they can gawk at their fantasy
and be proud that they have conquered
one as powerful as I,
deprived me of my natural existence,
made me a living trophy
(a testament to their jealousy and impotence)
while destroying my natural habitat
so that there is no place for me to return to
if I were to somehow get free.

So I atrophy
on a rock,
trying to hold on to fading memories
and dreams infected with that traumatic excision.
I am no longer a natural creature
but something else
a reluctant and hopeless demon…

©05.01.2018 ebn