In search of purpose and of form Reflection finds a helpless soul Outside of custom and of norm, There is no origin nor goal For he who will not see The curves of cruel geometry Who travels straight, uninterrupted through the long awaited season -Ad infinitum regarded as the end of man's great plight Who turns from cyclic, shadowed reason Out of right and out of rite To draw some shape upon a page, In act transcending place and age The wearied psyche wakes and finds That beauty comes only in lines.

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