right hand pointing

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?