The Intern’s Sword

For so long,

Damocles’ Sword,

Lurked above.

Yet, I held no power,

So why did it care?

I ruled no men,

Owned no land,

Nor waged a war,

Beyond my own,

So why did that Sword,

Carve my brow?

One day, not far past,

I realized that my Sword,

Was held by a hapless intern,

Who got the job wrong.

I sent him for sandwiches

And felt much better.

In that moment,

I became powerful.

I could sit in peace.

I could watch the dogs play.

Ray Charles soothed,

The breeze cooled.

I could live again.

Love again.

The Intern’s Sword?

Now plowshare and horse.

Peace from Zen.

Never the Sword again.

But bring War to my Garden,

And the plowshare I’ll sharpen.


© All rights reserved, 2017.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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