Time is at a standstill.
Silence is raptured.
Periphery eludes existence.
Sometimes I follow the edge with my eye to the very point of the line’s banishment. Other times the curves call me in, a low toned whisper for me to caress the medium which molds it. Rare are the times I am dazed into euphoria, too rare. In awe of the power that sends me into such a trance, it has placed upon myself the immortal urge to hone and craft that authority. To wield that unforgiving force that engulfs the soul with that which was crafted by man. To shelter the flesh that has now become unaccustomed to nature. To recall history that will and has since grown to long for books.

Rob N Henry, Thesis Poem