Sixteen blades all in a row,
what they are for, I do not know.
Eight bolts ring a rosie to form a curved shape,
your surface rusted, filled with scrape.
My mind knows you turn round the void in the mid,
but your stationary oneness sends my confidence a skid.
Your lines are not straight instead they flow,
If only I knew how you go, go, go.
Your poem is awesome and really explains how the group feels about this object. "what the heck is it?" :)
ReplyDeleteI featured this on the design:cosmology page. Nicely done!