Breaking from the Cloudy Vault,
The strongman strideth forth:
Go’el Sol rejoices now to
Scatter plundered warmth.
His gleaning bringeth plunder
From a gaseous cosmic yield,
Galactic Boaz, Robin Hood,
The Milky Way his field.

What Samson set the fire unto
The foxtails in these heavens,
Made this slow nova cool to touch,
Wrought bread with stellar leaven?
And what Elijah bid this flame
Descend to light our pyres,
To immolate our vanities
And glaze our high desires?

And why think’st I that an angel
such as these will tend my way?
Since the fall of Morning Star
another cohort holdeth sway
upon, within, throughout this
terra firma, and the odds of bad
are good, I hate to say.

I eat these pods amid the swine
and contemplate Apollyon:
Who is he? Does he come for me?
The bead of sweat upon my brow
is cruciform. But will it bar the
horsemen that surround me even now?

Forbidden, I would still come nigh.
Perplexed, I would look heav’nward still;
Indigent, I beg for gold and
snatch at pies on windowsills.
Unlovely and unsung, but singing
Psalms I have no right to know,
I foreswear what I have written,
but lack strength to keep my oath.




  1. I still might be a robot. But I am a robot that loves the story of Samson.

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