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.

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