Seeking escape from that sword’s deadly stroke
I’ve shifted my seat, table to table.
Damocles had nothing on this jamoke,
but I’m real he might’ve been a fable.
His sword was over a seat of power,
mine’s one of my very own invention.
Dam’s hung by a hair ‘neath which he’d cower,
while mine requires proactive prevention.
King Dionysius said “Try my seat,”
and Damocles parked on that deadly throne.
In my case darkness wants to fall complete,
and this daily fight I can’t win alone.
I’m glad I shared with you this confession.
With meds, it’s how I beat my depression.
I can’t tell you how much this 102-word sonnet grates against this compulsion I have that my poems be divisible by 50, but iambic pentameter and the rules of this poetic road don’t give a hoot about my hangups. And that, too, is proof I can beat some of the psychological traps I often set for myself. Thanks, Shakespeare or Plutarch or whoever. Thank you, too.