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?
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