Curling, twisting, toiling and boiling was this strong Spring.
Waiting to bounce free.
Its nature, its essence was rotated,
yet rotation requires degree.
Seeming crooked to those that see no structure.
It is those that see no flutter of a butterflies wings.
This Spring held tension in its being.
Until a delicate touch that eyes that could see so much,
turned toward in seeing:
The rotation was not paralell,
and both didnt coil.
The touch presented a domestic look
to free the Spring of turmoil,
as a hair on a cats back,
it was frightened with what may come to prevail.
Its underbelly was exposed,
the Spring never felt that stretch .
But it knows the extended feeling,
which at first is sure to question meaning.
The fire of the Domestic look set it straight without leaning.
still made of what made it toil and curl,
now has a direction,
as opposed to rolling around,
with a thought of no healthy bound,
it now hurls itself at the Domestic looks reflection.