C L B l e d s o e
Damocles Says Goodbye to the Sword
There’s no warmth in complacency, but there is
comfort, or rather the dead-nerve lack
of discomfort. I’ve become used to the feel
of your weight, the ever-present danger.
Rain was deflected by your hilt, except for the stream
guided down your blade. Eyes were drawn away
from my body to your shine. The thin whistle of air
served as a distraction from tedium. Now,
there’s debt, planning, considerations for the future.
Passersby look me right in the eye and I have
to smile, or else they talk to me, and there’s nothing
to say except: I’m not dead. What do I do now?