by Elvira
the Water flows from the Rock
Sweet, like Honey
the Pilgrim hides behind
Nebakanezer: No Enemy
to smite him, as if
disappeared in thin air.
Yet, as Samson gripped by Lust
for Woman, I
meditate on His
Promise: Not of
Earthyl Riches, but of
Love, Everlasting.
And, yet
he doubts ― for Body
feels the Blood
running down the chest.
Rushing Blood,
Rushing Blood,
Despair
to Freefall in the Unknown
Believing in the Hands
UnSeen.
May, 2013
