Like Samson I trusted you with my sacred self.
You've cut my hair and shorn me of my strength.
Now I ask you, do you love me still?
In the condition you have put me in?

I'm bound like the ox to turn the mill stone round,
And round and round the same old rut I grind,
A slave to the whims of others and the wheel,
Without a break, and without eyes,
I blindly carry on.

But everyday I push, I find some slack,
And though I cannot see, I know,
My hair is growing back.
And shame on you,
Forgetting my sacred soul.
I'll pull the pillars down from your temple, too.
And then you'll see,
That you were never any match for me.

-jenn