Quantum Love

Isn’t it sorry, and sad?

That all of my poems boil down to love?

And that this one as well is about love again, love not found? 

I try very hard to make my poems about something else

But, they all come back again

To the feeling I love, to thing I want, to the desire I never have

Come back again to being all about love.

Now and again, another chance missed brings it out when I thought I was safe. 

When I thought I had given up and could then relax. 

So here comes another reckless love poem for someone who has never even loved a real man in love.

The flowers were formed by love

My mother’s eyes were formed by love

My chaos, my ideas were formed by love

All that I know was formed by my feeling that I call love

Whether love for life or love for a man

That was what I wanted

What I can’t have

What continues.

So it is more than just love

But life all wrapped into one

Will this go on?

Or, will the search go on instead?

How can people be so blind when they are always looking around?

How can people bypass the ability to get what they want?

And once found, should love stop? The answer is rhetoric.  (It is no, love is always here)

How ridiculous that this continues and people can still be searching in a circle, and yet standing stalk still in time and space to the observer.

For, if there was someone else who knew of your search, surely you two would have found each other by now.

Or I would have love found, by now, at least. 

No observer equals nothing in quantum mechanics, so is my extended interpretation of the accepted physics approved Copenhagen interpretation.

 Quantum mechanics is not even perfect, let alone perfectly understood currently.   (Pun not intended, but a little appropriate!)

There is nothing that you can’t do and nowhere you can’t go.

If it is not about love, then no love poem really is either.

There are different ways to show love, different ways to get there,

But it may always boil down to the chance that can be lost. 

That’s my poem now and I guess it could always be the poem I write, the same poem upon tightly shut doors that contain tightly shut eyes.

And nothing else gets done.  Or, everything gets done except for the love.