Spinstress

I rested my heart here,
For a brief season,
Which became a decade,
Then more.

No glint of distant armour
To catch my fabled eye,
Just the crackle and spark
From a meagre fire,
And scant light where shadows flit,
Growing fat as a lord’s bairn,
Then thin as a peasant’s,
Keeping the rhythm
Of my foot, my hands,
Bound to a constant wheel
And a never-ending yearn.

I found this spinning chair at a charity shop recently and couldn’t resist it.

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