the elegance of the arc contains more meaning than any human pen may so ordain,
such blind making of all that might be and is, has not bent to our ear to whisper,
the language or the code of its devising, nor to enlighten us by celestial glimmer.
What majesty it makes to our smaller sense, the show that it shows to deign,
and then deny, the multitude within every whirling ghostly quanta in flight.
But solitude has it's rewards, as we reap the shares of harvest imagination,
and all we need is a simple change to scale imponderable mount.
I've discovered of this, a marvelous proof, which I can recount,
as soon as I stop fighting with this word processor's pagination.
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