Had he loved his women? He loved them as much as guilt. As far as, the sharing of misdeeds could stretch. But this one, the Keeper, carried the culpability, as though it were a cup of tea. A precious chalice of saturation to a thirsty martyr lurking behind a family tree.
The shame forever evolved. Resembling a tossed out Marlboro…an everlasting ash of gray . White, burned out, trash, here to stay..
A partner to, his, biblical claim. Delilah…her name.
Theirs was a love affair of another kind.
Delilah, with her Yukon Jack and Pall Malls.
Sampson, with accusations making everything around…small.
If one were too close. Blinded. Eyes shut tight. It would still emerge as though, heaven’s humor. Were as poignant and pointed, as the Papal’s shoes.
No punchline. No testaments! Sampson, just an aging fool.
A marriage to divine comedy. Where everyone put on flawed red shoes and danced to heretic, hazy, hues.