I am Damocles
A piston loose in the breeze.
It moves with a reluctant grace.
It knows only motion through the avail of other metal things,
but its soul knows it can create energy on its own.
The rigid, dark-green leaves of mint, sitting at the bottom of the glass,
fold in on themselves as ice beats them into submission; a mechanical rupture releases their true essence.
Ice is their Damocles.
Fear not for my soul,
my wings are made of iron,
my heart is obsidian,
as light as I imagine myself to be.
I crash against my soul,
and then run from the edges that rise up to meet me.
Phlebas drowned at sea.
In my own sea
I am Damocles.