At my workbench, alone with my thoughts, I hew and shape, my vision translated to being.
But corners are cut and compromises made, as sacrifices to the constraints of time and space.
Though none would be the wiser, a portion of my dream gets cast aside like shavings from the plane.
And so I scream at the abyss, the work of my hands to outlast me and my vanity.
I make, but am not jealous of the thing, moving always to a new task.
A poem, by The Apartment Woodworker.