By Thomas Page
There is a balance of things made by hands
That pleases its eyes in its accordance
To what should be and what will be
Crafted in the image of something more than itself.
This ratio called golden by the eye
Sits like a shell circling on itself
Like the Uzumaki upon itself
Becoming more and more as it reaches beyond the hand
And goes into a space unimaginable to the eye
Into structures of stone and pigment and print
That seem to just be
Because it was always meant to be
In perpetuity.
