Damocles

This year of death
is almost done,
and north winds gather
a glowering sun,
as subtle snakes
warm themselves
and hawks wheel high
over trees that begin
to turn over
each golden leaf.

And it would be better
if he could find
a weary silence.
Instead,
he keeps offering
this dangerous feast.
And does anyone
ever grow immune
to such poisons?
Those that work
deep and secret
in the blue vein?

Love falls
to ruin all around,
dropping from grace
as all seek loneliness,
as all seek endurance,
as all seek
and seek
the ancient strains
of fight or flight.

So let him rail,
then say, “There is a train.”
Let him pour poison,
then bring him the cup.
Let him take the wheel,
then point to the road.
Let him dangle the blade,
but refuse the choice.
We will spill no blood
in truth.
But he may do what he will.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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