Damocles

The grasp of the dew-brushed nettle stung As the raven, his beak-cracked voice proclaimed, The desolator of all possible worlds Smelted in copper and finally named; Hung heavy with threads of fire and gold frost, Good rhetoric spat of earth and worms, Whipped the snapping black feathered bones, Parting proto-fascist on vengeful terms. Ever hanging above the stripped-skull night, Poison-tipped and impatient to stake the mind, How the thorn tree crows wove savage crowns, As if parasite driven, eugenic designed; All the waiting and wonder and damage done, All the whore-monger politics raddled with spin, Under the omens of Damocles sword, Where does lie decease and truth begin?