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About This Poem
The Spindle Spins for a doll's hour glass figure
Destiny spins a yarn threading
A fibre through time
To string up time on the wall or
Embedded in an hour glass
well propotioned
An equal upper and a lower half
Like a doll
A well defined waist
Fate caught in a glass jar
flowing relentlessly, unstoppable
Moments held under supervision in
A place called the four walls
A house or a home
Putty in whose hands
A yarn is spun on a drop spindle
To coat a collectible that has sensibilities
Ceaselessly toyed with
Molded, branded, burned with
The stamp of chauvinistic masochism
In this state of doom, time stands still.
Tears prick the back of eyelids
The prick of needle oozes blood
Rubbed with shifting, sifting sands
Little time granules freeze
for that one moment
But glory evades.
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