Ok, no more messing about. A solid sonnet for Sunday morning. I’m coming out swinging.
She stands as still as ballast will permit.
Tethered to what once was warm within,
But roams. Designed, inclined, to never sit
And now, without, explores with manic grins.
She feels the tension of the cord. The strain
Of every increment: the large, the small…
But still, she stands in root and any pain
It takes to stay in place is left ignored
Until the moment the elastic snaps –
Then, all the tension of a journey’s life
Is suddenly relaxed. So I look back
At her, with searching, squinting, blinking eyes.
I never even knew the cord was fraught
Until I saw it, slack, upon the floor.