Schrodingers Poem
27/05/21 12:17
Schrodinger’s Poem
I wrote the perfect poem last night.
With the power to make grown men weep,
drive women to distraction.
Colours were bouncing of walls,
sounds exploding in crystal rainbows.
It was pervaded with the scent of Heaven; pure bliss.
Life, love, death described in arcs of
such images.
Listen with your eyes closed and the world outside
would fade like newsprint in a window.
Replaced by a Technicolour reality.
That’s how I recall it,
but I placed it in a box,
for protection.
In reverence.
Now struggling to remember more than a word,
I can’t open it.
After a couple of drinks and some cheese,
I’d scratched it down eagerly,
excited by my moments of brilliance.
Smiling at the word play, the similies and metaphors.
The words were Guinness fuelled genius super-saturated with Stilton
I couldn’t do better, no-one could.
Now this poetic masterpiece
lies two feet away
in a plain black box.
The world outside
unknowing,
unready for perfection.
Pythonesque visions jump into frame.
See two words and you’d cry,
three and you’d never be the same.
The blackness of the box overwhelms me,
expanding to fill my vision.
It’s a black hole, swallowing good and evil,
along with grey
mundanity.
In the box lies the perfect poem.
I know it in my heart.
I could rescue it for humanity.
Opened
and the box could reveal
my shopping list for
the Asda,
which I can’t seem to locate, but
can more readily recreate.
For now the box will remain
unopened
holding its sublime possibilities
I wrote the perfect poem last night.
With the power to make grown men weep,
drive women to distraction.
Colours were bouncing of walls,
sounds exploding in crystal rainbows.
It was pervaded with the scent of Heaven; pure bliss.
Life, love, death described in arcs of
such images.
Listen with your eyes closed and the world outside
would fade like newsprint in a window.
Replaced by a Technicolour reality.
That’s how I recall it,
but I placed it in a box,
for protection.
In reverence.
Now struggling to remember more than a word,
I can’t open it.
After a couple of drinks and some cheese,
I’d scratched it down eagerly,
excited by my moments of brilliance.
Smiling at the word play, the similies and metaphors.
The words were Guinness fuelled genius super-saturated with Stilton
I couldn’t do better, no-one could.
Now this poetic masterpiece
lies two feet away
in a plain black box.
The world outside
unknowing,
unready for perfection.
Pythonesque visions jump into frame.
See two words and you’d cry,
three and you’d never be the same.
The blackness of the box overwhelms me,
expanding to fill my vision.
It’s a black hole, swallowing good and evil,
along with grey
mundanity.
In the box lies the perfect poem.
I know it in my heart.
I could rescue it for humanity.
Opened
and the box could reveal
my shopping list for
the Asda,
which I can’t seem to locate, but
can more readily recreate.
For now the box will remain
unopened
holding its sublime possibilities