Our Windmill

Down by the sea it stands, like majesty huge arms go round and round and round, what drives this, people wonder, near the sea it stands, a tower with huge arms, there, on the ground. Thoughts are the force that drives our big windmill, an endless song is sung and travels with its arms, it's our love, this mill and may it never stand there, still while eros and his little helpers flaunt their charms, and while inside the mitochondria lives the spark that, like Prometheus did ignite in us the fire, we shall have touch and perfect vision in the dark, a secret room in our mill, our private spire. And once inside we hear the murmur of the breeze it can be humid and the heat makes chambers swell, distinctive movements as the summer's spirits tease. We have ourselves and our windmill has no bell. For my spiremate whose middle name is Pinnacle and whose distinctive interior taste and design made a warm home of the spire.