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Poem

(If you can't make sense of this, Google
"Schrodinger's Cat."   Then I think you will)

What is this thing that I may do,
that at this moment is no thing at all
...and cannot be until the it is done?
Thus having done, I must have nothing
for my rivalry with God.

This poor tormented cat
in every lifetime poured
but half a life and to this day
will play within a shroud, or worse

invisible.  She skulks around
the bleak, convenient pretense
of a time that knows
not of mortality nor

falling of the hours.
Half a feline ghost, she mourns
the absence even of the now
and maddened both by science

and by time, entrapped
within her whimsied box,
in irony, may righteously lament
but we, the watchers,
still will never touch

her quantum-spiked magnificence.
                 ~

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