Damocles

Beneath the gilded throne he sits, A whisper soft as candle wicks. The sword above—so still, so slight— A silver thread of hanging light. The king speaks low, the feast is sweet, Yet Damocles rests on mercy’s seat. Not in fear, nor trembling breath, But in the quiet dance with death. For in that thread, so frail, so clear, He learns the weight of time held near. The laughter fades, the wine turns pale— All glory balanced on a veil. And when at last he steps away, The sword still sways in endless sway. Not as threat, but gentle grace, A mirror held to time and space. For every joy, a thread is spun, And every life leans toward the sun. Damocles walks, his heart at ease— At peace beneath the hanging peace.